You Need Me (I Don't Need You)
by Last.Echo
Summary: Stiles is Stiles and that's all one really needs, when it comes down to it. [Sterek]


**You Need Me (I Don't Need You)**

__Disclaimer: None of these characters are owned by me.

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Derek/Stiles

Summary: Stiles is Stiles and that's all one really needs, when it comes down to it.

* * *

_June 2012_

"Dude. You smell weird," Scott says by way of greeting when Stiles enters the McCall residence.

Hastily, he checks himself—tucking his nose under the collar of his shirt for a sniff, then flapping his elbows around dramatically. Only the smell of his own deodorant wafts back to him and he frowns at Scott, brow scrunched in consternation. "Bro, I don't smell anything. I swear I took a shower."

Scott shakes his head and leads the way into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Nah. It's not B.O. Just—like—a different smell."

"What's it smell like?" Stiles asks, genuinely concerned. It wasn't bad enough that people were repelled by his personality and general appearance alike—now he _smelled_ funny, as well? God, his _life._

Scott shrugs as he opens the microwave and grabs the plastic bag of takeout containers he'd been keeping warm. Stiles is momentarily distracted by the fact that Scott had actually listened to his complaint that their food had gone cold and stale by the time Stiles had showed up for last week's game night. Then he remembers that, sure, Scott can be a little dense, but Stiles has never been in the habit of associating with _complete_ idiots so it was unfair of him to think so little of his _best friend. _

Already losing interest in the topic as he scopes the selection of Chinese food, Scott mumbles around a mouthful of chow mein. "It's like—I dunno. It reminds me of like the perfume stuff Allison uses. But—not, you know, a perfume, just—something."

Stiles falters, watches his friend's face carefully, but Scott continues picking at the selections of noodles and meats with the look of intent he usually reserves for food. He'd expected a reaction—_any _reaction—at the mention of his ex-girlfriend, but Scott hadn't even stumbled over the name and for a moment Stiles worries that his friend may be in denial. Or, more likely, had completely _forgotten_ about the fact that the love of his life had dumped him only two weeks ago (precisely around the time that game night had become a _thing_ because Scott had needed something else to focus on without Allison in the picture and Stiles _really_ didn't want to think about Lydia and Jackson and their stupid love-conquers-all romance).

After several minutes, Scott looks up at him, a strip of beef dangling from his teeth. "Ready?"

Stiles grins and nods and they take their food into the den where the Xbox is still set up from the week before. Stiles completely forgets about the smell thing because Scott may be able to kick his ass at lacrosse with his stupid werewolf powers, but those supernatural abilities didn't necessarily translate well into the virtual world of _Marvel vs. Capcom_ and Stiles thoroughly enjoyed every opportunity he had to dominate over Scott.

. . .

The subject of his scent doesn't come up again until the following week. It's Isaac who brings it up when he meets them for lacrosse practice. School won't start for another two months—August seems an eternity away with everything that's happened—but Stiles is set on making first line and even though he'd been initially weary of Isaac, he eventually warms up to the other when it becomes apparent that, for all his douchebaggery post-turning, he's actually a pretty decent guy.

And _thoughtful_.

Scott was thoughtful, but he was more forgetful than anything else and the thoughtful side usually only surfaced where _Allison_ was involved, nowadays. Isaac, on the other hand, was just a thoughtful person by nature with a good head on his shoulders, and though he still found Stiles irritating the majority of the time (and openly favored Scott, whom he considered to be something of a pack-brother even though Scott has clearly stated, in as many words, that he has no intentions of accepting Derek as his Alpha. Like, ever.) Stiles knows that he is growing on Isaac and pretty soon those eye-rolls would be of fondness and not annoyance.

Stiles knows where his strengths lie—and though he is an exceptional failure at first impressions, he is persistent and he _knows_ people and eventually, people can't help but fall in love with him. If begrudgingly.

They just have to be willing to give him a shot.

But, anyway, the scent thing. Stiles has an idea of what it could be when Isaac brings it up while they're changing in the locker room after practice. By 'bring it up', of course, he's referring to Isaac abruptly snatching the shirt Stiles was grabbing from his gym bag and then proceeding to bundle it in both hands and bury his face in it.

"Uh—'sup, man?" Because what can you really say to that? He's not really surprised or particularly horrified by how _okay_ Isaac seems to think his behavior is as he returns the shirt to Stiles with only an inquisitive frown.

"Your shirt smells weird," Isaac says, considers something for a moment, then leans into Stiles' space to take a deep whiff. "_You_ smell weird."

"Oh—dude, yeah," Scott says as he rounds the row of lockers from the showers.

He has a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair is wet and matted to his face, curling into his eyes. He's been growing out his hair again post-Allison and Stiles vehemently disapproves, but Scott assures him he has every intention of getting it cut _soon_. It just isn't soon enough, as far as Stiles is concerned.

Scott continues, waving a hand idly in Stiles' direction. "That weird smell—it still hasn't gone away. I mean, like, it faded a bit, but it's stronger today."

Isaac looks intrigued. Scott looks curious but also like not knowing wouldn't kill him and he starts changing with little urgency. When Isaac refuses to look away, clearly expecting an explanation, Stiles shrugs.

"I think it might be the scented oil the masseuse uses." Stiles turns back to his clothes and doesn't wait for their reactions.

Accordingly, they go like this:

Isaac: "Whoa, what? Isn't that a little _girly_?"

Scott: "What's a _mass-oos_?"

And then, randomly:

Jackson: "Wow, Stilinski, could you _be_ any _less_ of a dude?"

Because this is Stiles' life, he isn't surprised (still jumps about a foot in the air and drops all his clothes and _nearly_ loses his towel, much to Isaac and _Jackson's_ amusement) by the new addition in the locker room, although he feels a little pissed that neither Isaac nor Scott had deigned to warn him.

Trying to save what little face he can (while clutching indignantly at his towel to keep it secure over his most valuable assets) Stiles glowers at Jackson with his best impression of Derek Hale. "What are you doing here, Jackson? Don't you have money to roll around in in? And don't act like you've never gotten a massage! You probably have your own personal masseuse on call!"

Jackson shrugs, dropping a heavy gym back on the bench in front of his locker, furthest away from them. "Maybe. But at least I get mine done by beautiful and exotic women; I don't let some guy rub scented oil all over my naked body."

Scott is gaping at Stiles but Stiles just gives Jackson a dirty look, irritated with his childhood tormentor but not stupid enough to show how affected he is. Scott exclaims, "Dude! You get your massages from _dudes?"_

"_No,_ Scott," Stiles replies automatically. "Jackson, here, just seems to get his rocks off imagining me getting slicked up by them."

Jackson rolls his eyes, turning his back to them so he can dig out his gear from his bag. "_Please_."

"But, you know, maybe I'll see if _Danny'd_ be willing. _That'd_ be an experience." Danny and Lydia were pretty much Jackson's only buttons (well, _and_ his birth parents, but Stiles would _never_ go there), and Jackson had only recently come to the realization the Lydia was someone even worth protecting.

Expectedly, Jackson throws a glare over his shoulder, sneering, "Don't flatter yourself, Stilinski."

A hand on Stiles' shoulders keeps him from pursuing an argument. He looks over to see Isaac and Scott standing protectively behind him, expressions weary. Isaac removes his hand from his shoulder and nods, wordlessly. Stiles exhales heavily and returns the nod, then resumes changing and completely ignores Jackson for the short time they're forced to share his company. It's the first time any of them have seen Jackson since he full on wolfed out in the warehouse—but he seems to be his usual dick self which is just _awesome._

. . .

The thing is, Stiles had been lying through his _teeth._ It doesn't occur to him until days later when he's getting another massage from his regular masseuse, Miguel (and he _so_ doesn't think about _that one time_ with Danny and a certain Sourwolf while he's getting his hour-long massage. He _doesn't.)._ The lie had been so instinctive—like lying to his father and every other adult in Beacon Hills was—that apparently even Stiles' _body_ hadn't betrayed him to his werewolf friends (and Jackson). This was fortunate, and it doesn't bother Stiles nearly as much as it should. Instead, he's fascinated by his newfound ability—_lying._ It seemed so novel a thing, especially when he was surrounded by walking lie-detectors.

He decides he wants to test out his new skill as soon as possible. Frustratingly, however, the next wolf he encounters following his massage appointment is Scott and while his best friend decides it's time to interrogate him on the subject of his scent, he doesn't actually ask questions Stiles feels inclined to lie about.

"Why are you—so you're—" Scott is really too flustered for Stiles to take him seriously.

Like the good friend that he is, he decides to take pity on him and says, "Yes. I'm getting massages. It's actually not that bad."

Scott looks pained—but that's just his puzzled face. He gets the same look when faced with Mr. Harris' pop quizzes. "But—_why_?"

Stiles shrugs. "It helps me relax. Danny suggested it."

"_Danny?"_ Scott's eyes are wide, obviously recalling the confrontation with Jackson. Not that anything had happened, and it barely constituted as a confrontation since Jackson hadn't even threatened them with bodily harm. In fact, there had been surprisingly no physical contact whatsoever.

"_Yeah_, dude," Stiles says, rolling his eyes, spinning lazily in his desk chair. "He said it helped him loosen up before a match and it kind of just helps melts the stress away. It's awesome. And after everything that's happened, I think I'm entitled to it."

"But—_massages,"_ Scott fumbles for the right words, looking at everything but Stiles. His eyes fall on the new motivational posters decorating the wall over Stiles' desk. "That's, like—for _girls."_

Stiles can't help but roll his eyes. _Really_. Scott was one to talk when it had been obvious to anyone unfortunate enough to be witness to his tragic love story with the hunter's daughter that Scott had been the one wearing the panties in that relationship.

"Not _only_. A lot of guys do it." Stiles still hasn't found a reason to lie—he's getting impatient. He's just _waiting_ for the opportunity to fabricate an intricate tale. It doesn't have to be a serious lie, and he'll probably end up fessing to Scott right away, but he wants to test his theory. Wants to know if he really _can_, because if so—holy _shit_ would that come in handy.

Several hours later, after they've returned to doing homework (Scott's summer school work that Stiles is so graciously helping with in return for the lacrosse help) Scott looks up from the periodic table of elements to squint hazily over Stiles' shoulder. Stiles looks up from the paperwork he's reviewing, watches him, and waits.

Then, "So, are they—any … good?"

Stiles grins.

. . .

He gets Scott to join him for his next visit, and soon it becomes another _thing. _This becomes _their_ thing, and not them and _Isaac,_ for which Stiles is a little relieved. Isaac is cool, but he still kind of misses his best friend and having Scott all to himself. It hasn't been the same since Allison entered their lives, and not that Stiles is glad for his buddy's heartache, but he won't deny the satisfaction of having Scott back at his side and not just to deal with life or death situations they were too young to have to be saddled with anyway.

* * *

_July 2012_

It's the last full month of summer break and August is nearly upon them. Scott is finishing up with his summer school classes. It's just a matter of him keeping his grades at passing level throughout the new school year and he won't have to worry about being held back. Something seems to be motivating Scott to do well, and Stiles is too shocked by his friend's new willingness to study hard that he can't even feel too annoyed that he no longer has time to help him with lacrosse, which leaves him with only Isaac for company. They still have the massage appointments together, in addition to game nights and study days, so it's all good. Really, it's not like Stiles has to be with Scott _every_ day of the week.

"I guess it's not too weird now," Isaac says during their next practice, apropos to nothing.

Stiles blinks at him through the sting of sweat in his eyes, lowering his lacrosse stick. "Uh—what?"

"Scott smells like that stuff now, too. So it isn't weird anymore," Isaac says, cradling the ball in the net of his stick, weighing it.

Stiles scrunches his nose, confused, his mouth gaping open. "Dude—_what_?"

Isaac rolls his eyes dramatically. "You're part of Scott's pack, but the smell of that oil was practically masking the smell of him. It could have caused some issues."

Now Stiles is concerned, his eyes widening. "Wait—what?"

Isaac shrugs, looks like he wants to say something more, then swallows the words with a grimace and says instead, "It's just a good idea if you have Scott's scent on you."

"_Not_ an ominous statement at all," Stiles gripes because he can tell by the set of Isaac's shoulders that the other has no intention of elaborating.

Reading Isaac has nothing to do with the increasing amount of time he's spent with the other (Isaac is still more inclined to keep to Scott's company over Stiles' and Stiles assumes that the only reason he's sticking around to help Stiles in Scott's absence is due to some ass-backwards pack loyalty to Scott); werewolves seem to be inherently incapable of maintaining a poker face which is how Stiles can always tell when they're not being straight with him. With the exception of Peter Hale, every single one of them could use lessons in deception (but Peter Hale was the exception to a lot of things, most of which classified him as the Grade-A psycho-creep that he was).

They get back into position, Isaac reclaiming his post by the goal. With a flick of his wrist, the ball sails from his net into Stiles' in a perfect arc. Stiles tries not to feel too envious, reminding himself that before their werewolf abilities, both Scott and Isaac had been _mediocre_ at best when it came to lacrosse.

"Oh," Isaac straightens from his crouch, frowning. "I forgot. Next week is the full moon, so—"

Stiles cuts him off with a wave. Even though Isaac seemed to have way more control over himself during the moon than Scott, he still preferred to stick close to his Alpha during the full moon."It's cool. I'll survive a few days without you, man."

Isaac looks thoughtful for a moment, canting his head to one side in a spectacularly canine fashion. "You know what? I think Derek said something about August having a second full moon. You should probably check on Scott."

Stiles is surprised. "Whoa. Cool. When?"

"There's the one on the 2nd. I think the other one is on the 31st."

"Great. School starts on the 21st. That means the full moon falls on the second Friday back." Stiles _really_ didn't want to have to worry about _two_ werewolves losing it on campus—he'd barely survived _one_ and Scott was his best friend. He didn't want to imagine what Jackson would do to him if Stiles tried to put him under lockdown.

Isaac smiles sympathetically but says nothing. After practice, he pulls Stiles into a sweaty, one-armed bro hug before they hit the showers. It serves to put him in a moderately better mood and Stiles grins with the private knowledge that he has succeeded at worming his way into another heart.

. . .

Scott is studying on the days before the first full moon, but Stiles checks up on him anyway before he heads out to practice on the field on his own. He takes his time changing in the locker room, trying to convince himself why he shouldn't go home and continue the research he'd been doing last night on werewolves and packs and scenting. Isaac's comment on Stiles' scent had sat with him for the entire week, niggling at the back of his mind. Eventually, he forces himself onto the field—where he's surprised to find he is not alone.

"Um—" He looks unintelligently from Lydia, who is sitting comfortably on the bench usually reserved for the team, to Danny and Jackson who are lightly geared and standing in center-field.

Danny and Jackson are smirking (they're not looking at him, but Stiles knows those smug expressions are _meant_ for him), juggling a ball between their nets. Lydia smiles at him so brilliantly Stiles' knees go a little weak and he fumbles with his stick, dropping it after a few unsuccessful attempts to reclaim his hold on it.

"Since Scott is still getting acquainted with the ins-and-outs of being a responsible human-being and Derek's puppy can't seem to bring himself to leave his master all by his lonesome," Lydia says with such simplicity and matter-of-factness that Stiles has trouble digesting her words, "Jackson and Danny are going to be in charge of your training for the next few days."

Stiles' mind is utterly blank for a solid minute.

When his brain recalibrates and begins replaying her words, too many thoughts assault him at once and as usual, his mouth fails to request permission from his brain before running off on its own.

"Wait—wait! What?" He's looking from one smug face to another and feels an overwhelming urge to pull at hair that's too short to grasp. "Jackson? Jackson shouldn't even—how can he even?—And Danny! Does Danny _know? _Like _know-know?_ And _train _me? Jackson, you _hate_ me! And I thought you didn't like being co-captain? You realize I'm trying out for co-captain, right? Since Scott—seriously! Does Danny _know?_ Why—"

He hears the solid _thunk_ of rubber hitting flesh before he feels the dull pain. He rubs the abused spot on his skull and glares out at the two on the field.

Danny is grinning loosely. "Stiles, chill. Try breathing between sentences."

"Try _forming_ sentences," Lydia sniffs primly. "Really, how are you even second in class?"

Jackson and Danny exchange a look and before they make their way towards Stiles. Jackson sets his stick next to Lydia and begins removing his gloves, infuriating smirk still in place.

"In order—yes, I'm fine. Derek already sent Lahey to warn me about Thursday."

"And you've obviously elected to ignore the wisdom of an older, much more experienced _Alpha."_ Stiles snorts, face scrunched with perplexity. Jackson was giving him a straight answer and almost being … _civil._ No threats of bodily harm or crude jokes about his manhood (or lack thereof). He wasn't being _friendly,_ per se, (there was definitely an undertone of ridicule to his words) but it was still weird.

Jackson grins, "Obviously." He reaches out to clap a hand on Danny's shoulder, and Danny's smile widens. "And Danny knows. He's my best friend. Of course he knows."

Stiles bites back on cracks about Jackson coming out to Danny with a secret of his own. Clearly, there's a time and a place for certain jokes and even Stiles recognizes that the bizarreness of this situation warrants his attention one-hundred percent, with as little sarcasm as possible.

"A-alright," Stiles nods, frowning. His body is _buzzing_ and his brain is a _torrent_ of questions. He tries to focus his thoughts and his eyes squint reflexively from the excursion of concentration. He glances at Lydia, and her expression is so perfectly calm—like they're discussing the friggin _color of grass_ here—that Stiles really begins to doubt he's not hallucinating. "I don't get what any of this has to do with me. I'm—uh—_happy_ you guys are all—I dunno—chill with each other now or whatever. I'm just trying to make first line and hopefully, eventually, captain—so … "

Lydia is beaming and Stiles flinches when Jackson removes his hand from Danny's shoulder and reaches out—to clap his arm. There is not an ounce of hostility in the action; Stiles gapes unattractively.

"Well, I've been informed that, as current captain, it is my duty to help those on the team with the inclination to succeed and a modicum of potential to do so." Danny and Lydia exchange a self-satisfied look as Jackson says this.

Stiles doesn't even have the brain power to point out Jackson is still only co-captain of the team and it had been _his_ captaincy that Stiles had been looking to snatch.

"Don't hold your breath on becoming captain," Danny says as if reading his thoughts, bumping a fist into Stiles' shoulder. He throws Jackson a dirty look, but there's no heat behind it. "These cheating assholes have _superpowers._ Still, you can be first line, and with Jackson and me coaching you, you'll be hands-down _unstoppable._ You were pretty badass last game."

"I seriously didn't know you had it in you, Stilinski," Jackson adds and it's so weird to look at him and not see the douchebag Stiles was familiar with. Stiles begins to feel a little lightheaded. (Also, _awkward,_ because their last game had involved Jackson _dying_ and Stiles getting kidnapped.)

"You can also revel in the knowledge that, unlike Scott, you will have made first line because of legitimate _skill_, and not supernaturally enhanced abilities," Lydia says with a conspiratorial smile.

That seems to be that. Stiles loses 80% brain function as he's dragged onto the field by the two larger boys. Danny takes goal and Jackson doesn't touch his stick for the entirety of the session, adjusting and critiquing Stiles' stance and moves, making surprisingly helpful comments and offering advice with only a marginal amount of sarcasm.

. . .

For the rest of break, Jackson and Danny show up for practice. Stiles doesn't remember until that night after their first practice that Jackson had never explained to him _why_ he'd been seemingly so unaffected by the full moon. He doesn't remember to bring it up the next time they meet because he's too busy trying to survive Danny and Jackson's murderous drills. The difference between himself and those two is so drastic it's hard not to lose hope—but one look at Lydia's encouraging smile and he's getting back up and pushing through the cramps and the burning in his muscles and lungs. By the third practice, Stiles begrudgingly acknowledges what he always knew—Jackson was fucking _good_ at lacrosse. Even before the wolfy-powers, he'd been phenomenal. He knows Jackson is holding back because Danny is his check—and Danny has no qualms about calling out his best friend if he suspects the other is abusing his abilities.

Isaac returns the following week, understandably bemused when he shows up and Stiles is in the middle of doing suicides with Danny, Jackson standing to the side with a stopwatch (because wolf-powers mean he doesn't really need to train _ever again_, though that doesn't seem to stop Jackson from pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion.)

Jackson calls time and Stiles face-plants on the turf. Danny tugs him by the shoulder, rolling him onto his back—probably so he doesn't end up suffocating on the grass—and joins him on the ground in a much more graceful sprawl.

"Lahey!" Stiles hears Jackson shout. "You're on defense!"

Isaac gears up while Stiles and Danny recover their breath. Jackson doesn't give them long before he's barking orders and Isaac joins them a little later, taking his position in front of Danny and the goal. Stiles catches Isaac's look of curiosity, but there is no opportunity to inform him that Jackson has apparently been possessed by the spirit of some good Samaritan because Jackson is running them through a list of plays that would make Finstock proud.

* * *

_August 2012_

Stiles doesn't mention his new training partners to Scott because Scott never asks. It's not that it's supposed to be some dirty little secret, but how exactly do you just drop something like that into conversation? _Oh, hey, Scotty, remember Jackson? Bane of our existence? The guy who stole the love of my life and couldn't even appreciate her it _literally_ almost cost him his actual life and the lives of countless others? Yeah. _That _Jackson. He's been helping me train for the last couple of weeks. But—dude! You've _gotta _check out my bounce shot!_ Scott was a little dense, but even without his wolfy-senses he'd be able to smell something was wrong. A guy who's been a total jackass to you practically for your entire scholastic career didn't just suddenly turn a one-eighty and call a redo on his entire fuckin' personality. Unless, apparently, you'd also just recently done a one-eighty on the whole '_totally human'_ thing. Stiles supposes if Jackson could just _decide_, at the drop of a hat, that he was just sort of _done_ being human, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for him to decide, _hey, let's try a new personality while I'm at it._

At first, Stiles had been too wrapped up in trying to figure out what Jackson's angle could be—he was willing to accept that Jackson was enough of a robot to make these sort of dramatic alterations to himself as a person, but it was a little harder to grasp that part of this New Jackson involved Stiles in any measure that didn't include shoving him into his locker. When it became apparent that his only motives were to torture Stiles by way of lacrosse, he decided it was better to just accept it and go with the flow because if he tried to apply logic to every odd thing in his life he would probably end up in a psyche ward before Thanksgiving break.

Scott _does_ acknowledge the additional scents with a curious sniff one day, frowning and asking why he smells of Lydia and Danny—but before Stiles can reply, Scott is frozen at the sight of Allison's car, which is parked in front of the bookstore across the street from the GameStop they are in.

With a fond smile and a shake of his head, Stiles gives Scott some privacy to stare like a creep and makes himself scarce by ducking into the used games section.

. . .

School starts up after what turns out to be the longest summer break _ever_. This is in large part due to having Jackson and Danny as his tyrannical coaches and Isaac as the lanky steel wall of impenetrable defense. After the second week of training, Jackson had told Isaac he was allowed to use some of his powers against Stiles, resulting in a week of sheer agony and nearly broken bones.

Stiles is a walking bruise as he slumps into first period. He spots Scott at the back of the class and grins when he sees his friend has saved him the seat behind him. As Stiles approaches, Scott grimaces openly, crinkling his nose.

"Ouch, dude. I can _smell_ the busted capillaries."

Stiles _stares,_ backpack slipping from his shoulder and slumping to the tiled floor.

"Holy shit." That's all Stiles manages to say. He didn't think Scott even knew what capillaries _were_ four months ago. Then, he remembers that Scott's mom is a frickin' _nurse_ and he reprimands himself for the slight against his friend's intelligence—if that wasn't a sign that he was spending far too much time with Jackson-fucking-Whittemore, he didn't know _what_ was.

Scott, clueless as ever, frowns and waits for Stiles to recover and take his seat before twisting around and planting his colorful schedule on Stiles' desk. Stiles responds by doing the same, flattening his crumpled schedule next to Scott's. He begins listing off which teachers they have in common, then checking to see if they have them in the same hour.

"Oh _no_," Scott moans, pouting at their schedules.

"What?" Stiles looks up, feeling a flash of anxiety and concern out of habit. (It's been a tough year.)

"You have fifth lunch," Scott says miserably.

"You _don't_?" Stiles blinks down at the schedules again.

"No," Scott mutters. "They gave me fourth because I have '_independent study'_ with Ms. Morrell." He says this as if it were a fate worse than having a kanima run amok—with quotey-fingers and all.

"The hot guidance counselor?"

"Yeah."

"Why _her?"_

"I have to take a foreign language class but my schedule is filled up with Gen Eds and they have me taking World Lit on top of Junior English Lit so I'll have enough credits to graduate. I guess Deaton knows Ms. Morrell. He pulled some strings and got me an exemption."

Stiles blinks. "Dude, that's actually pretty cool. Deaton is _awesome."_

Scott is still sulking. "_Yeah_, but I'm not allowed to miss even _one_ assignment or Ms. Morrell will fail me completely."

"Dude, French is _not_ that hard." Stiles pauses, because what he's about to suggest could backfire horrifically. "If nothing else, it'd give you an excuse to talk to Allison. Her family has a French background, right?"

Like a switch, Scott brightens immediately, beaming at Stiles like he's the single greatest thing in existence.

. . .

It turns out that having fourth lunch without Scott isn't all _that_ terrible of a thing, since Jackson, Lydia and Danny seem to immediately assume that Stiles is now a welcome member of their clique by virtue of the blood, sweat and tears they'd shed together over the break. Isaac is also there, and though neither Jackson nor Isaac seem inclined to become besties any time soon, they're civil enough with each other and Jackson doesn't demand Isaac take a hike when the other werewolf hesitantly claims the spot next to Stiles that first day back at school.

It's a little uncomfortable at first, but eventually Stiles resolves the tension by being his usual self. They'd adopted a routine over those last couple of weeks of summer, in between drills or during the lunch breaks Lydia would force them to take with her (because a pretty girl could only sit still for so long watching a bunch of sweaty guys fumble around in the grass with their sticks), where either Jackson, Danny, Lydia or Isaac would start a topic and then let Stiles run with it, maintaining the flow of conversation on his own for hours.

Stiles still can't think of Jackson as a friend, but he is beginning to think that maybe Danny and Lydia are warming up to him; he'd caught a hint of affection in the rolling of their eyes a few times now and he knew he would soon have two more under his thrall.

It didn't make sense why none of them had tried to kill each other. Lydia was well versed in lacrosse, and she attended every game and event, but Stiles had a feeling that the only reason she'd shown up at his practice sessions (and _stayed _for the entirety of their duration) had been less because of him and more because of Jackson. She'd been completely cordial, _friendly _almost, bar the expected sardonic quip that was sort of a packaged deal with Lydia and Jackson anyway. And Stiles had always been fascinated by Danny, but like Lydia, the other had rarely spared him a second glance most days. He hadn't outright ignored his existence for ten years, but he'd made it clear from the get-go that Stiles was a loudmouth and a nuisance and Danny had absolutely no interest in becoming friends with him.

Logically, Stiles realizes this means that the only reason he is welcomed in this group _now_ is because _Jackson_ has deigned to allow it.

Stiles has absolutely no idea what that could mean.

. . .

Scott's birthday falls on the first Thursday after their return to Beacon Hills High. Scott begrudgingly decides to forgo their tradition of staying up all night running through a list of his favorite horror movies in favor of studying. Instead, Stiles and Isaac have dinner with the McCalls and movie night is postponed to Friday night. Isaac supplies them with his own collection of movies (and seems suspiciously unfamiliar with some of them, which makes Stiles suspect Isaac may have been borrowing from their local Sourwolf.)

. . .

The week of the second full moon doesn't go as horrifically as Stiles had feared it would. Scott has to be locked up because while he'd managed to grit his teeth during the first one on good will alone, he doesn't have the strength to control himself for the second moon without Allison (who has impressively adopted the characteristics of a phantom, for all that Stiles sees of her). Isaac retreats back to Derek, and Jackson—

_Jackson_ is completely fine. Again. Stiles gets a call from Lydia on the night of the second moon inviting him over to her place. Jackson and Danny show up in the Porsche before Stiles can find the keys to the Jeep (because obviously he's not going to turn _Lydia _down) and Friday night is spent watching terrible werewolf movies and eating gratuitous amounts of gourmet cooking and colorful pastries.

* * *

_September 2012_

For the next couple of weeks, Stiles still meets with Scott on Fridays, replacing game night with a study night that _dissolves _back into game night, but Scott no longer meets with him for extra practice and Stiles can only assume that Scott has either completely forgotten about their arrangement or guesses that having Isaac to practice with should be sufficient for Stiles. Never mind that, you know, Stiles is still dutifully helping Scott's grades stay afloat.

He soothes what small ire might arise from these thoughts with the reminder that he still hasn't told Scott that he's not just training with Isaac.

He's not entirely comfortable keeping his association with Jackson and his group from Scott—because, at _this_ point, it's really not _just_ practice. After everything that has happened, Stiles finds it hard to believe his life could ever take on something so mundane as a routine, but it does. Weekdays are spent at school where he divides his time between classes and lacrosse training. Friday nights are for Scott; Saturdays involve practice sessions with Jackson and Isaac (Danny and Lydia too, of course), followed by whatever Lydia decides upon—movies, bowling, shopping, what-have-you. Sundays are _all_ Jackson, and it's the only time that Lydia doesn't join them because she couldn't care _less_ about football, but it's apparently a _thing_ for Jackson and Danny, and it's not even a consideration anymore for Stiles to turn down the offer because hanging out with Jackson, Danny and Isaac is almost as fun as Friday nights with Scott.

It feels normal—it _is _normal. For the first time in a long time, he's doing _teenager _things. The sort of things he used to do with Scott, before shit hit the fan and Peter Hale decided to make a morsel out of his best friend. And he doesn't like that it feels like he's keeping something from Scott (for all that he'd been looking to try his hand at lying to a werewolf) but, he is. He is and he doesn't know why. He doesn't think it'd be something so petty as wanting to get even with Scott by suddenly becoming the absentee in their friendship, because he's honestly still there for Scott as much as ever before, and Scott—for his part—doesn't even seem to recognize anything to be amiss.

He and Scott still hang out but lacrosse no longer feels like their _thing._ Scott still maintains co-captainship, but he doesn't show up for every practice—not that Finstock minds because Scott still kicks ass when he _does _honor them with his presence (as if his skills could possibly _deteriorate_) and his grades are actually getting better.

Pretty soon, Scott gives up the masseuse thing, as well, because he's not naturally equipped to handle a full load of schoolwork so it takes every ounce of his concentration just to maintain a C-average in his classes. If it weren't because Deaton were a Saint disguised as a vet, Scott probably wouldn't have been able to maintain his job, either. Fortunately, Deaton agrees to cut Scott's hours, while also allowing him to bring his homework to the clinic.

And, in a turn Stiles would never have expected, Jackson and Isaac become his new werewolf buddies, and Danny and Lydia become his human accomplices—and while none of them are quite Scott or Allison, it's nice not to feel like the third wheel in the great romantic-tragedy that is (was) Scott and Allison.

. . .

Jackson and Lydia don't flaunt their relationship, either, and Stiles suspects it's very much to do with Lydia (who he knows secretly has a heart of gold) but sometimes he gets the feeling even _Jackson_ holds back on the PDA for his benefit. It doesn't feel condescending. It's such a subtle thing that Stiles is only really aware of it after Isaac brings it up, asking if Stiles is okay—and only then does he realize that while their group had been arguing over movies at the rental store, Jackson and Lydia had shared a secret sort of smile when Lydia had suggest _The Notebook. _Stiles had caught it, but his mind had supplied him with comical memories of Jackson's vehement and vocal diatribes against that particular movie instead of reminding him that Jackson and Lydia were once more _JacksonandLydia_.

It stings a little to have it brought to his attention, but when he recognizes the dull ache is more his pride and less his heart, he feels a little lighter—a little happier—and he smiles at Isaac and he smiles at JacksonandLydia and he smiles for the rest of the day like he hasn't smiled in _months_.

. . .

"You know … I envy Scott." Isaac says one day, completely out of left field. Stiles swivels around in his chair, startled.

Isaac is sprawled on his stomach on Stiles' bed, papers fanned out in front of him. They're studying together for the upcoming U.S. Government exam even though it doesn't really mandate a group study session and both of them have been buried in their notes listening to The Killers without a word said between them for probably two whole hours now. (Apparently, Isaac prefers studying at Stiles' place in lieu of Derek's den but Stiles can't really fault him for that since Derek seems to gravitate towards buildings that are better off condemned.)

"For what?" Stiles asks when Isaac doesn't elaborate, highlighter cap dangling precariously from his lips.

Isaac shrugs, dropping his chin into his folded arms, expression strangely blank as he stares down at his notes. "He has—he has people to protect. And who protect him in turn. He just—he's not alone."

Stiles balks, physically recoiling in disagreement. "Dude. You're _not_ alone. You hang out with Jackson Whittemore and Lydia Martin. What more do you want?"

Isaac rolls his eyes and looks up to meet his gaze with a wry quirk of his brow. "_I_ don't hang out with them. I hang out with _you._"

Stiles sends a despairing look heavenward and shakes his head, cap tumbling from his lips. "Well, _okay_ then," he snorts. Then, rolling his chair closer to the bed he plants a hand to his chest and proclaims sincerely, "You've got _me_. Or, what? Am I not good enough?"

It's meant as a joke but Isaac jolts up from his position so suddenly it makes _Stiles_ jump. "You—?"

Isaac seems to choke on his words—looks so off balance that Stiles has to replay his own words in his head to see where he'd gone wrong. Maybe he hadn't said what he'd meant to say? It wouldn't be the first time his mouth had run off on its own. Isaac, searching Stiles' face so hard it seriously begins to make Stiles uncomfortable, eventually deflates.

He grumbles, "You're good enough, Stiles."

Stiles stares, trying to figure out what he'd missed because _obviously _he had. Also, where was this even _coming _from? "_Dude_. Isaac. You've _got_ friends. You've got me, and Scott. And I'm pretty sure Jackson tolerates you way more than me, so … " He trails off because he's sort of at a loss for a solution, mostly because he has no idea what the problem is or where Isaac would have gotten the impression that he was alone.

Isaac snorts, but some of the tension he's gathering in his shoulders begins to relax. "Jackson only tolerates me because of you."

Stiles' mouth flaps a couple of times but his brain refuses to supply him with a response. _Great._ Of all the times to be speechless.

Isaac cants his head to one side, sitting up completely to smirk at him. "You don't see it, do you?"

Stiles frowns. "See what?"

Isaac shrugs. "He treats you like pack."

It takes a moment to remember they're talking about Jackson. He is so pathetically unprepared for this conversation. What's going on? _Where is this coming from? _Eventually, Stiles soldiers through his confusion to grumble, "Aren't I considered _Scott's_ pack?"

God, his _life._ It should not be normal to say crap like that. _What_ even?

Isaac is looking less and less forlorn and more amused. There's a flash of perfect teeth as Isaac grins before he says, "That's what I've been trying to _tell_ you. You barely carry his scent at all, anymore. You need to spend more time with Scott. Especially now that you two aren't doin' the whole mani-pedi thing. I mean, I'm sure that you'll always have some of his scent on you—you guys have been friends for so long—but it's weak compared to the other smells."

Stiles sneers but he knows it looks more silly than serious on his face. "Okay. We did _not—_massages, man. _Massages._ Nothing wrong with that. And hold up—_what _other smells?"

"Of Jackson." A pause. "And me."

Stiles is gaping inelegantly, but he doesn't care. "_What?"_

Isaac tries to wave it off like it's no big deal, but that he's picking through the papers splayed in front of him means that he's searching for something to keep him occupied so he doesn't have to meet Stiles' eyes. "It doesn't mean anything, Stiles. And it's a good thing. It shows you are protected."

Yeah, _now_ Stiles is _definitely_ not going to be able to drop this. "From _what_?"

Isaac does another little half-shrug. "I guess—just—_whatever_, you know?"

Stiles snorts. "Uh. No. I don't. Lately, there's always _something_ to be worried about." Isaac looks shiftily from one paper to another. "There's something, isn't there? Something you're not telling me. Something—_Derek_?—won't let you tell me?"

After a moment, Isaac sighs heavily, peeking up at Stiles with a sheepish expression. "I'm sure if it were something important Derek would come to you."

Stiles doubts that, seriously, but drops the topic. Even if grilling Isaac won't get him the answers he wants, Stiles is more than capable of finding other ways to obtain more knowledge on whatever Derek has managed to get himself into _this_ time.

. . .

Isaac spends a lot less time with Scott, until eventually Stiles is pretty sure the only time the two wolves interact is during classes. At first, Stiles worries the two have had a falling out, or that Derek has ordered Isaac to stay away from Scott, as Scott has declared himself independent from Derek. But, if that were the case, Stiles doesn't think Isaac would be hanging out with Jackson, since Jackson seemed just as disinclined to join Derek's pack as Scott. Eventually, he resolves that Scott is just trying to be responsible by distancing himself from Isaac like he'd done with Stiles so that he could focus on school and not risk the temptation to return to his slacker ways.

Ever the problem solver, Stiles decides to invite Isaac to game/study nights with Scott on Fridays—Scott is _thrilled_ for the addition and it doesn't even occur to Stiles that game night was supposed to be about him and Scott because by now it seems like the natural order of things to have Isaac join them at Scott's house for a night of senseless virtual violence.

More often than not, though, Isaac is crashing with Stiles and his dad seems only too happy to leave the house to them since, unlike Scott, Isaac has a knack for keeping Stiles indoors and out of trouble. It's the same way with Jackson, Danny and Lydia—but Stiles tries not to think too hard about why his life is so much easier (read: safer) around those four than it's ever been with Scott—figures it has something to do with them being functioning members of society whereas Scott can scarcely be trusted to tie his laces correctly.

. . .

Things continue on in this way for long enough that Stiles forgets it ever wasn't normal for him to be a part of the Jackson-Lydia-Danny-(+Isaac) dynamic. Danny seems particularly fond of Isaac in a way that has Jackson sometimes glaring at the other wolf, but eventually Lydia sorts him out and Stiles assures him that Isaac isn't Danny's type, anyway, and that Isaac probably just reminded Danny of his little brother because Isaac was actually pretty damn adorable—even if he liked to think he was as badass as his Alpha. Jackson concedes this (not in so many words) because for once he doesn't seem like he's even interested in maintaining a dispute just to win it. Jackson is still just as argumentative as ever, but it's less borderline hostile-_I'm-going-to-rip-your-head-off_ and considerably friendlier and fun.

Stiles thinks it's safe to assume these people are his friends, even when not a year ago they'd all wanted (and several had _tried)_ to rip each other's throats out (with the exception of Danny because Danny was awesome). This assumption is cemented by the fact that Stiles has learned a thing or two about packs and scenting so he's not oblivious to the fact that after every massage appointment with Miguel (less frequent, but not something he's willing to give up because life might not be as stressful as it could be but Miguel was _good_) both Jackson and Isaac make a point to be extra touchy with him. After his talk with Isaac, Stiles had caught on to the way Jackson and Isaac would practically _hang_ all over him (probably thinking they were being pretty suave and nonchalant about it) Stiles had been less freaked out than he should have been.

His _life_, ladies and gentlemen.

. . .

It takes a while, but eventually Stiles works up the courage to ask the question that's been eating away at him for months. They're driving back from Lydia's and Isaac is crashing at his place since Stiles' dad is working a double in lieu of half the night shift getting slaughtered by the kanima and everyone being too afraid to apply for the positions after all the crazy that's been going down in Beacon Hills. (Werewolves and hunters and kanimas, _oh my!_)

"Hey—uh," Stiles begins elegantly.

Isaac has gone stiff in the passenger's seat, facing the open window so Stiles can't catch a glimpse of his expression. He mutters, "Yeah?" and waits.

"About—Erica and Boyd …" Stiles hazards a quick look and catches the muscles flexing along his jaw, dark blond curls flattening with the wind.

After a long moment, Isaac says, "We still haven't heard from them."

Stiles doesn't actually know all that happened. When he'd been released by Chris Argent he hadn't had the luxury to wait around and see what he would do to the two Betas—his thoughts had been on his father and ensuring Gerard wouldn't uphold his promise of bringing down his wrath upon the Sheriff should Stiles fail to reveal the location of Derek and Scott. In the aftermath of foiling Gerard's plot and stopping the kanima from mutating into something _more_, Chris Argent had muttered his begrudging assurance that Erica and Boyd had been released from his custody. Stiles' relief had been short-lived when, at the start of school, both Erica and Boyd had failed to show up to any classes. He'd given them time, but not only were they absent from school, they were nowhere to be found around town.

Stiles can tell by the sudden tension between them that it's best if he just drops the subject. The car ride is silent the rest of the way until they get to his house, but he can't maintain it once they've shut the door behind them and begun the ascent to his bedroom.

Nudging Isaac's shoulder with his, he asks with a loose grin, "And Night of the Living Dead? He still walking among us?"

A smirk flits lightly across Isaac's lips. His head is bowed, as if to conceal his expression, but Stiles can see Isaac's shoulders relax from their hike towards his ears. "He's out of town. Derek sent him off to scout the area for—uh—you know. Other packs."

Stiles snorts. "That's good. Guy gives me the creeps."

They enter the relative cleanliness of his room and Stiles drops down automatically in front of his laptop to check emails without bothering with the lights. Between the dulled light of his laptop's screen and the moonlight filtering in through his perpetually open curtains, his bedroom is cast in tones of blue-tinged grey. Isaac heads for the closet to retrieve the spare bedding and pillows usually set aside for Scott (but that were now probably _drenched_ in the scent of Isaac, with a hint of Danny).

Stiles' inbox shows only three new messages—two from Lydia and one from (shockingly) Allison. The Lydia messages are related in that the first is a list of bands Stiles is expected to get acquainted with, and the second is a forward of a receipt for a ticket to an upcoming show for one of the aforementioned bands—Kids of 88, whom Stiles is familiar with as Scott happens to be a fan as well. They're not necessarily his cup of tea (he's more of a Ramones and Offspring kind of guy) but he doesn't _dislike_ them either, and music is music and at least it isn't _Nicki Minaj_ or whatever other bullshit music Jackson will force upon him if he happens to be coerced to leave his Jeep behind and ride along in the Porsche.

He hesitates before opening Allison's message, but it turns out to be her asking if he knew if Scott would be attending the concert as well. He replies in the negative without even having to check with Lydia and smiles warmly at the thought of Lydia working her subtle schemes trying to break Allison out of the shell she's locked herself in following … _everything_ that poor girl has had to deal with. He knows immediately that he's not going to mention the concert to Scott—the last thing Allison needs is a reminder of yet another heartache. Lydia was right to invite Allison and Stiles intends to back her up with whatever she has planned.

"He's not that bad, but I guess he never tried to kill _me_ so—" Isaac is saying, bringing Stiles back to the present. Isaac lets his words trail off with a shrug, dropping the thick comforter and pillows on the floor next to Stiles' bed. "And anyway, Derek's always in a bad mood when Peter shows up so I like it better when he's gone."

Stiles closes out the window on his screen and puts the laptop on sleep mode, swiveling in his chair to scrunch his face at Isaac. "Is Derek ever _not_ in a bad mood?"

Isaac rolls his eyes, smiling as he drops onto the bedding. "He's not _that_ bad."

Stiles arches a single brow. "_Sure._"

Isaac frowns, removing his shirt and tossing it carelessly across the room. "Well, come on. Can you blame him? His entire family was burned alive and ever since he came back in search of his sister—the guy hasn't _once_ caught a break. He found Laura in _pieces_—only to find out that she was murdered by his only other living relative, who then tried to kill _him._ Then, after killing his uncle, he's got a bunch of hunters and cops on his tail because—"

Stiles winces at the accusatory eyes glaring at him and holds his hands up, placating. "Yeah, _yeah._ That was our bad. Well, I kinda dropped the ball that first time with my then-shoddy detective skills but that second time was _all _Scotty. Scott—Scott was just being _Scott_. I don't even want to think about that night, really."

Isaac looks exasperated, eyes wide with emotion. "_Exactly_. And on top of all of that, he _still_ had to deal with the kanima going around murdering all those people—"

"Okay, _that_ was _his_ fault. He shouldn't have bitten Jacks—" Stiles stills and his eyes lock with Isaac's. The same thought seems to occur to them at once, shoving everything else to the wayside. "Shit."

"Jackson."

Because, _fuck._ How long had they spent with Jackson now? Stiles had spent more time worried about what being a werewolf would _mean_ with Jackson, then bemused to discover the change only seemed to have made him easier to get along with—that he had _completely_ forgotten the guy had spent the larger part of last year as some _lizard monster_ that was going around _murdering people_, forced into the servitude of two different but equally disturbed masters.

Stiles slumps back in his chair, running a hand over the stubble of his head, expression miserable. "How do you think he's _doing_?"

Isaac's eyes are wider with concern, eyebrows crumpled together. "I don't know. He acts like nothing's wrong. I mean, I hadn't even thought—damn. Do you think he remembers?"

Stiles shuts his eyes, heart constricting in grief for the newest werewolf. "_God_. For his sake, I _hope_ not."

They're silent for a long time, Stiles' words hanging in the air between them. Stiles sits at his desk chair, staring vacantly into the shadows of his room while trying not to envision what potential monsters could be lurking just beyond his limited human sight (his fingers itch to get a hold of the Argent's bestiary, but it's still in Lydia's possession while she works to transcribe the thousands of pages worth of Archaic Latin). Hanging out with Jackson has made it impossible to reclaim the familiar resentment he'd once reserved for the obnoxious jock. Jackson is still as much of a closed book as Derek Hale and like Derek, all that Stiles _really_ knew about Jackson was what the other was willing to show (or what Stiles could filch from the internet).

Jackson could have easily abused his new abilities as a wolf (Erica, Boyd and Isaac were prime examples of wolves gone rogue with new power), yet he hadn't. He adjusted, took it in stride, and fell so smoothly into his new life that Stiles could almost forget he wasn't the same old Jackson Whittemore he'd known and loathed. Jackson never needed to be grounded or reminded not to let the wolf take over—he was the embodiment of control in a way Stiles was certain Derek would envy for not having in his pack (if he'd ever admit to it). It's been two full moons since that first lacrosse session with Jackson and Danny—and Jackson hasn't _once_ tried to maim or otherwise kill Stiles because he'd lost control of the wolf.

Maybe Jackson had been right. Maybe some people were just born to drive Porsches over nice little Hondas.

It's baffling, and now that Stiles has time to sit down and consider it, he has to marvel just how far _gone_ Jackson must have been when he'd become the kanima when it's obvious that his self-control far surpasses any of the other wolves. It's depressing, as well, and Stiles knows that Isaac can sense the shift in his mood because the other is sitting up again (had apparently been just as lost in his own thoughts while staring up at the ceiling) and watching Stiles with a look of concern.

Stiles smiles ineffectively and abandons his chair to flop facedown onto his bed in one movement. He kicks of his shoes and socks lazily but doesn't bother undressing, drawing a pillow into his arms and burying his cheek into the cool fabric.

"So—" Stiles says after a moment, the silence suddenly too heavy as thoughts on the kanima and Jackson linger at the fringes of his mind. "Derek's talked to you a lot about—you know—all the crazy shit that's been going down, huh?"

(Changing topics is sometimes the best option. Ignoring the bad is sometimes _all_ you can do.)

He's honestly surprised Derek would _ever_ talk about what happened to his family—even _if_ Isaac was part of his pack.

Isaac doesn't reply immediately, as if he's debating whether or not to allow Stiles to change the subject. Stiles doesn't know why he doesn't want to discuss Jackson—only knows that the terrible twist of his heart hurts in a way he'd never thought he'd associate with Jackson. He's not sure if he's comfortable feeling sympathy for the newly reformed asshole, but Stiles also can't ignore the changes he's seen in Jackson in only these past couple of months. Jackson is making an effort—to what end, Stiles can't even begin to guess, but it's an effort all the same.

"No." Isaac says finally. "Derek's a vault. I heard it from Peter."

"Ooh," Stiles flinches as if the words were a slap. "Bet Derek wasn't happy."

Isaac sniffs a quiet laugh that floats up from the floor in the darkness. "Not at _all."_

It's easier to talk about Derek and his crazy uncle than it is to talk about Jackson so Stiles listens sleepily to Isaac as he goes on about his Alpha and everything he's learned from his time spent with Derek. Stiles' exhaustion is enough to keep him from making any snarky remarks about the grumpy wolf, which is fortunate because he doesn't actually want to hurt Isaac's feelings when Stiles can clearly hear the admiration in his tone as he speaks.

. . .

It's a Friday night when Stiles makes the trip down to the Hale house. He's heard from Isaac that Derek alternates between the burnt shell of his former home and a train depot somewhere in the preserve, but Stiles figures he shouldn't take his chances by encroaching on the perpetually grouchy Alpha's territory and the Hale house sort of feels like neutral ground to him—it being county property and all. Even if Derek isn't here—and Stiles doesn't see the Camaro anywhere so that's very likely the case—he suspects the Alpha would still be able to sense his presence with his wolfy sixth-sense.

He hopes to whatever God will listen that the house is as empty as it looks and that Peter-fucking-Hale isn't lurking around somewhere. Isaac is probably waiting for him at Scott's house so that they can commence with game night, but Stiles is on a mission tonight.

He steps carefully onto the porch, weary of the untrustworthy wooden boards underfoot. He glares at the soot and dust-covered porch, muttering in a sing-song, "Oh, _Derek_—where _are_ you?" He doesn't raise his voice unnecessarily; even if he's not entirely convinced Derek would have been able to hear him from as far as the train depot, he's really talking more for his own benefit. The Hale house will never _not_ be Creep Central.

Stiles paces uncertainly in front of the door, not overly fond of entering the house and risk it collapsing on his head—not that there was an actual roof to collapse on his head, but _still_. He stills when he catches a shadow of _something_ on the wooden door. He squints at it for a bit in the darkness before it occurs to him to whip out his phone and pull up his flashlight app. He flashes it at the door and is no less confused than before to see that the shadow was in fact the result of a painted black shape on the peeling wood—in the form of a distinctly familiar symbol. It's not unlike the tattoo on Derek's back—and his spastic mind chooses to supply him first with _Triforce!_ before common sense shoves the ridiculous notion aside and supplies him with _triskele, _instead. The motif on the door is different from Derek's in that it doesn't consist of three interlocked spirals, but rather three crooked lines which come together in a solid triangular shape.

Nervously, his tongue darts out to lick his lips because he might not know what this symbol is, but he's almost one-hundred percent certain it has something to do with whatever Derek's involved with now (and that Isaac is refusing to talk about). He punches the home key on his phone to close out of the app and pulls up his camera, sets it to flash, and then quickly captures a few pictures of the symbol until he's satisfied with the quality.

He's just lowering his phone when he hears the crunching of tires over the forest terrain and turns just in time to be caught by a set of headlights as a familiar black Camaro pulls up to the path. Stiles is blinded by the beams and flails accordingly to shield his eyes; the headlights pin him for a minute too long and he tries to squint through his fingers to confirm that it _is_ Derek in the car—but then the lights cut out and suddenly everything seems darker after staring directly into twin beams of light.

He hears the slam of a door—unnecessarily harsh, and _geez_, is Derek _already_ in a bad mood?—but by the time his eyes have readjusted to the darkness Derek is standing at the foot of the porch steps.

Naturally, he's glaring. "What are you doing here?"

Stiles flounders for a second, eyes darting over his shoulder to the triskele on the door before settling back on Derek—who seems to straighten almost imperceptibly and is narrowing his eyes as if it's occurring to him that Stiles might be here _because_ of whatever little secrets Derek is keeping. Derek studies him suspiciously and Stiles almost wants to roll his eyes in exasperation because—_seriously? _How many times do you have to save a guy before he gives you the benefit of the doubt?

Finally, Stiles pockets his phone and keeps his hand there, stepping away from the door, closer to the stairs. "Just—uh—actually needed to, uh—talk. To you. About—uh. Stuff. Not, like, life-or-death stuff, just—" Derek's face is settling deeper and deeper into a glower and Stiles swallows nervously—realizes he's waving his other hand around with his flailing words and shoves it into his jacket pocket as well. "I got a new phone, so I don't have your number, but tomorrow is—uh—tomorrow is Isaac's birthday and—"

"Are you serious." It doesn't even sound like Derek bothered to pose that as a question—sounds so flat and deadly Stiles instinctively clamps his mouth shut. Derek's expression takes on a light sneer of disgust. "_This._ This is why you're here?"

"Uh—" Well, it _was._ "Yeah."

Stiles licks his lips and swallows again for good measure. How was it possible that _Derek_ was more intimidating than his crazy-ass _uncle_ when Peter was the one who'd actually tried to _kill_ them?

Derek's anger is all eyes and eyebrows. It's truly still the most terrifying thing Stiles has ever been subjected to—Gerard included. "Stiles. I have more important things to worry about than—"

Abruptly, Derek seems to freeze, brows furrowing deeper, but not in anger—rather confusion. He cants his head the slightest fraction to one side and Stiles entertains the idea Isaac must have picked up the same habit from his Alpha. Just as suddenly, Derek closes some of the distance between them by only taking a half-step onto the stairs, leaning forward and reaching out a—thankfully—unclawed hand to grip Stiles by his jersey jacket and tug him sharply. Stiles stumbles forward a step, but catches himself on the banister before he can trip into the frightening werewolf. Nothing about either the distance between them or their posture is inappropriate and Derek drops his hand after a moment, his eyes focused with dagger-like intensity on Stiles' chest. Somehow, though, Stiles knows without asking that (as with Scott, Isaac and Jackson) Derek is taking in his scent. It's certainly done with less of a creeper tone than all of the Betas combined, but Stiles is nevertheless uncomfortable by their proximity.

"W-What is it?"

Derek's eyes take on a glare, still aimed at his chest for another second before he looks up to lock their gazes. "You—smell."

Stiles blinks. This was becoming a recurring theme. "Uh—okay? Was that a complete thought or should I give you some more time to form a sentence?"

The glare darkens. "You smell of _Jackson_."

Stiles' puckers his lips and twists them to one side—considers how this is the first time he's going to admit out loud that, "_That_—would make sense. Seeing as I—kind've hang out with him. Like, a lot."

Derek flashes his canines, human but still frightening. "You don't even _like_ Jackson."

Stiles shrugs. "Well …" He still hasn't figured out how it happened, either, so Derek's guess is as good as any.

Derek's nose crinkles and he retreats away from the steps, drawing up his chin and leveling Stiles with a look of disapproval. "You reek of wolves. Don't you have any human friends?"

"Uh—_no," _Stiles scoffs immediately and probably with more anger than he should allow when speaking with an Alpha. "You and your uncle _turned_ them all! Seriously! Ever since your stupid uncle bit Scott, it's been one thing after another and it's me and _my_ friends who have to pay for whatever grudge there is between you and the Argents."

Derek looks murderous and Stiles should know better than to even _infer_ Kate Argent's name around Derek but _fuck it._

"Peter attacked _Scott_! He hurt _Lydia! _You go and bite _Jackson_ and then he turns into a friggin'_ monster_ that nearly ends up killing _all_ of us! Even _Danny_ almost got hurt because of all of this! _Danny_ got involved and he didn't even know _anything!"_

Stiles realizes his slip a second before Derek's eyes become _sharp_ with realization. "Didn't. Implying that he knows _now."_

"Um." Well, fuckberries. Stiles grimaces, drawing his shoulders together nervously. "Look, we can trust Danny, and he's Jackson's best friend, so …"

"That hardly matters," Derek sneers.

"It _matters,"_ Stiles snaps indignantly, straightening. "It matters a lot. I think it _helps_—you know? Having people. People who know and understand what you're going through—so you don't have to feel alone." He tries to pretend he doesn't notice the flicker of emotion in Derek's eyes that he can't seem to control. "You should _see_ Jackson. He's like a completely different person. It's not like Scott—Jackson is—he's doing good. _Really_ good."

Derek is suspiciously silent, but his hostility seems to drain a little. He looks away, studying the darkness of the woods, strikingly impassive. "So I've heard."

It takes a minute, Derek's words sitting heavily between them—and then Stiles nods, licking his lips.

"From Isaac," Stiles says with realization.

There's no accusation in his tone and he thinks a part of him must have suspected that Isaac would want to keep Derek informed on the situation with Jackson (and probably Scott). It doesn't feel like a betrayal, or even deceptive. He can tell from Derek's expression that he expects Stiles to believe that Derek had sent Isaac with the specific intention of sticking close to their group so he could keep an eye on them for Derek. That was probably exactly the case, but the thought isn't upsetting at all. It's surprising, because to him it seems like the actions of a concerned party and Derek was usually too wrapped up in—

No. No, that wasn't true. Even when Derek was in the middle of whatever drama life decided to throw at him (like he hadn't had enough), Derek always put others before himself. It was one of his few redeeming qualities and the only reason Stiles would feel slightly bad when he eventually got himself killed.

"Look," Stiles says at last, taking pity on the Alpha—who seemed to be expecting a verbal lashing. "Jackson's fine. Scott's fine. Lydia is perfect and Danny is so chill I'm starting to doubt _he's _human. Allison is M.I.A. but I think that's a little understandable—given what's happened with her family. We're _dealing_. Life is surprisingly good right now, so I was thinking it'd be nice to do something for Isaac. You know—for his birthday. I get the feeling he hasn't had a reason to celebrate that in a long time, from what Scott and my dad have told me."

Derek looks disgruntled, but it's better than flat-out anger. "What does this have to do with me?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, rocking on the balls of his feet just to release some of the energy he's built up from standing still for so long. "Well, I figured since he's _your_ Beta, I should ask you for permission before I kidnap him for the weekend."

Derek cuts him a wry look, a single brow quirked. "He's with you more often than he's with me."

"That's _school_," Stiles says dismissively. "But I also didn't know if you had anything—you know—_planned_ for his birthday." _He's your Beta, after all,_ hangs in the air, unsaid but heard.

"I don't," Derek says shortly.

"So it's cool if he spends the weekend with me and Scott?" He pauses for a moment to consider the likelihood of his next thought. "_Possibly_ Jackson."

Instead of replying, Derek asks with a huff, "Is _that_ why he smells of Jackson all the time?"

"He didn't tell you?" The words are out before it occurs to Stiles that maybe Isaac hadn't _wanted_ Derek to know he was hanging out with another one of his Alpha's wayward Betas.

Derek looks a little annoyed, but not homicidal. It's a plus. "I didn't ask," he says almost defensively.

Stiles thinks of Scott and how he hasn't told him about hanging out with Jackson and grimaces. "Jackson and Isaac have been helping me with lacrosse," Stiles says, because that is the most honest response he can give without it sounding like Derek has to worry about _another_ Beta abandoning his pack.

Derek looks a little incredulous—then, shoving his hands into his leather jacket, he kind of just rolls his head on his neck like he's trying to crack it and shrugs his shoulders. The entire action seems to help him gather some control over whatever sliver of emotion he thought he was letting through his growly façade—other than anger—and he says, "Do whatever. I don't care. Like I said, I've got other things to worry about."

Because Stiles has poor impulse control—and, apparently, a _death wish_—his mouth asks, "Like looking for Erica and Boyd?"

The glare returns full force and Stiles takes a step back when he thinks he catches a flash of the Alpha in Derek's eyes.

"Um. Sorry. Isaac told me about them and—"

"He shouldn't have," Derek growls. "That's _pack_ business."

Stiles licks his lips, nodding urgently to show his comprehension. "Trust me, he's not breaking any wolfy confidentiality clauses. All he said was that you guys still haven't heard from them. That's it."

Derek snorts, unconvinced, and turns abruptly to return to his car. Stiles makes a face at his retreating back and hops off the porch to make his way to his Jeep.

. . .

It became a Stilinski-McCall tradition shortly after the divorce for Scott and his mom to join the Stilinski family on major holidays and birthdays. Melissa and Ginnifer had frequently worked the same shifts at the hospital—Melissa as a then-nursing student and Ginnifer as a technician. They hadn't been friends, necessarily, because this had been a period in Ms. McCall's life where everything seemed to be chaos and revolved around the hectic life of being a student and trying to provide for a seven year old son. Stiles can remember overhearing his mother fretting over the young nurse to his father, before suddenly Scott was thrust into his life with absolutely no warning. Apparently, his mother had gone to Ms. McCall and offered to let Scott stay with Stiles and his sitter—or, when Debby couldn't make it, at the station with his dad. Stiles didn't mind, of course (he was a people person, like his mom) and even if he hadn't realized it then, he became an active part in his mother's pursuit to ease the burdens from Melissa McCall's shoulders.

Soon, the family of two was joining them for Thanksgivings and Christmas dinners. Melissa and Ginnifer were as attached at the hip as Scott and Stiles and all was perfect.

Then his mom got sick—and then it was just Stiles and his dad for a while.

One of the things Stiles used to do every year since the McCalls had become an integrated part of his life was join his mother in baking a cake, completely from scratch, to take over to the McCalls (because Melissa always seemed to have the worst luck with her shifts and often got stuck with ugly mornings so that she could have the rest of the day to spend with her son).

That first year, after Stiles' mother had passed, Melissa took the day off for her son's birthday. She showed up at the Stilinski house, sans Scott, to find Stiles floundering around his kitchen in an empty house. In silence, they'd done their best to recreate the cake his mother had made famous.

It wasn't perfect, and the ride to the McCalls was done in silence—but when Scott awoke to find them in the kitchen singing _Happy Birthday_, Stiles thought: _Maybe. Maybe things will be okay._

The Saturday after Stiles' speaks with Derek, he doesn't go to sleep. Ms. McCall has an early shift, so he waits up for her and even without preplanning, she gets up two hours before she needs to and meets him downstairs while Scott and Isaac slumber heavily in Scott's room. They take Ms. McCall's car to his house (because Scott and Isaac both recognize the sound of his Jeep's engine) and on the drive there, Stiles finds grocery bags full of ingredients in the back seat.

They never managed to recreate his mother's cake—but Stiles didn't think he really wanted to. The Stiles-Melissa special was almost as good, but nothing would ever be better than his mom's baking.

Scott is waiting for them in the kitchen when they return, having scented the familiar smell of the cake the moment they'd pulled into the driveway.

Isaac is startled when he is awoken at six in the morning to Stiles and Scott stumbling into the room with a homemade cake, singing _Happy Birthday_ completely off-key with Melissa hovering by the doorway with a warm smile.

If, after he is awake enough to take in the situation, Isaac's eyes appear to glisten just a tad more than usual—well. None of them feel any need to mention it.

Ms. McCall leaves almost immediately after they cut the cake. She plants an awkward kiss on Isaac's curls and takes her slice, wishing him a happy birthday before heading off to work. The cake is pretty huge, because after Scott's turning Stiles had realized the standard size would not be enough to feed a wild animal (which Scott totally was) and Ms. McCall had chalked it up to teenage metabolism. Obviously, she knew better now.

But this cake is three layers thicker than Scott's (and Stiles still isn't sure it's enough to feed two wolves and has resigned himself to not getting any seconds for Isaac's benefit) and half of it is gone in almost a blink. Scott is preparing for fourths when Stiles notices Isaac shuffling awkwardly on the other side of the island counter.

He's not sure why it's the first thing to pop into his head, but he is making the suggesting before he can help himself. "You wanna set some aside for Derek?

Scott freezes with the knife over the cake, blinking owlishly at Isaac.

Isaac looks almost sheepish. Before he can answer, Stiles is already ducking to retrieve some of Ms. McCall's least favorite Tupperware from the cabinets under the island.

"It's just—that …" Isaac mumbles, clearly uncomfortable.

Stiles pops back up and sees Scott is already halving the cake to a respectable size. While Scott balances the piece of cake on the flat of the knife from the pan and into the Tupperware, Stiles watches Isaac fiddle with his phone.

Finally, he holds out his phone to Stiles, which he takes and glances down to see Isaac has left it open to a received text message.

_Sat, Sept 22, 2012_

_Happy birthday._

_5:01 AM_

It's from Derek.

* * *

_October 2012_

School reaches a lull as teachers begin handing out more busy work than actual projects. It's a breath of fresh air for them all—and also just enough of a reprieve for Scott to start puzzling things together about what's been going on in Stiles' life.

Well, it's hard not to realize _something_ is up—when he decides he's going to join Stiles and Isaac for lacrosse practice on the weekend, only to show up and find Stiles and Jackson holding a mock-match against Danny and Isaac. Isaac and Jackson bring the game to an abrupt halt the moment they register the scent of Scott is stronger than usual—not just emanating from what is always stubbornly clinging to Stiles' skin.

Scott looks completely and totally confused, jaw jutting off to the right more than usual as he gapes at them from the benches. He doesn't seem to have noticed Lydia, but she has her eyes trained on him like a hawk—a single brow arched in an elegant but challenging manner.

Scott's eyes find Stiles but his mouth fails to form words. Straightening, Stiles removes his helmet and glanced between Isaac and Jackson before jogging to the sidelines to meet Scott.

Stiles searches Scott's eyes for a long moment before he says, with the sort of nonchalance obtained only after so much exposure to Lydia Martin, "Hey, man, if you're planning on joining us, you're gunna have to be on our team because Isaac cheats and you have no self-control."

There's a solid two minutes of silence where Scott just continues to stare, totally uncomprehending.

Then, Isaac calls out indignantly, "I do _not_ cheat!"

"No way!" Danny shouts a second later, "You can't have Scott on your team unless Jackson and I can be on the same team, as well!"

Stiles doesn't look away from Scott, who slowly seems to be coming back into awareness with the others grumbling their complaints about the suddenly uneven teams. Finally, Lydia decrees, "Scott goes with Isaac, Danny with Jackson and Stiles—no goalies because we don't have enough players."

"Sounds like a plan," Jackson says complacently. Scott's eyes are jerking from one face to another and Stiles reaches out to clap his arm before twisting around to jog back onto the field. Jackson is grinning at Stiles, but there's a tightness around his eyes and Stiles notices he's pointedly not looking at Scott. "We got this, right, Stilinski?"

"Yeah, man," Stiles replies with his own grin, meeting Jackson's fist with his own then taking his place beside him. "Let's clean up!"

Isaac is pouting at him but Stiles can see he's only milking it to keep the mood light. "I don't _cheat_, Stiles."

Danny crosses the field to their side and bumps shoulders with Jackson, both exchanging wide grins that are mostly due to the excitement of being able to play together—Stiles is familiar with that unique feeling of knowing you have your best friend at your side (has shared it with Scott on several occasions). Stiles looks to Scott then, waiting—and feels a thrum of anxiety in his chest.

Scott's still frowning at them, but his eyes are no longer vacant with a total lack of comprehension. Shaking his head, he jerks his helmet over his head and jogs to Isaac's side. He squints from Stiles to Jackson, then Isaac, and back to Stiles. When he speaks, it's directed to Stiles with the sort of private urgency he reserves for when he knows something's swept right past his head and Stiles is the only one he can count to fill him in without making him feel like an idiot.

"_Dude—_what the heck did I _miss?"_

. . .

Sometimes, Stiles disappoints himself. He likes to think he's a good friend (how many would devote their lives to protecting and keeping their best friend's supernatural secrets?), but there are times when he drops the ball.

Following one of the most awkward lacrosse practices he's ever participated in—to date—Stiles had come to the realization that he was a _jerk._ Sure, Scott wasn't a perfect friend. He was forgetful—a condition that increased ten-fold when Allison entered the picture—and a little short-sighted. But Scott had done a lot for Stiles in little ways most people overlooked. Over the last couple of months, Lydia and Jackson would scold him for letting Scott walk all over him in their friendship, and Stiles had offered little in his friend's defense because like Scott, Stiles had become a little too accustomed to his friend's presence. Scott would always be a permanent fixture in his life—Stiles could feel this in his bones—and for two people who had known each other for as long as they had, it was too easy to take for granted what the other brought into the friendship.

Maybe it was that Stiles actions were a little more visible—but that was just Stiles. He didn't _do_ low-key—everything he did was loud and over the top, just like his mother had been. Part of it was that Stiles wanted to impress upon the people close to him just how much they meant to him. He didn't want to waste a _second_ and he _never_ wanted them to doubt just how valuable they were. He was making memories—he was making memories every minute of every day and he was burning them into his brain because nothing was forever and life had taught him early on that he could lose those closest to him at any turn and he _needed_ those memories like he needed to _breathe. _This was just the way he was programmed and even if other people didn't think this way, Stiles made it a point to impart with them as many brilliant memories as he could.

He didn't want to be forgotten, but he also didn't want to forget.

Scott didn't think this way. He _couldn't_—because he'd never had to watch a parent slowly succumb to sickness, then death. But Scott had been hurt, and Scott knew what it felt to be abandoned. Scott's friendship was a subtle thing—but it was everything Stiles had needed in a time when his life seemed to be falling apart. Scott was soft—gentle in a way that went unnoticed by most save Ms. McCall and Stiles (and, now, Allison). The summation of Scott's friendship could be best described as _total and complete acceptance. _He loved quickly and deeply—sometimes to a fault. He saw weakness in others and didn't scorn it—rather, he yearned to protect them and envelop them in his warmth so that they would never have to feel pain. It wasn't the best way (sometimes a person needed a little pain in their lives so they could grow) but Scott's heart was always in the right place.

Stiles is reminded abruptly of why he has always devoted so much of himself to his friendship to Scott when they're walking back to his Jeep after practice (Danny, Lydia and Jackson parting ways with them to head for the Porsche). Isaac is silent, as if awaiting a verbal lashing—so incredibly reminiscent of Derek that Stiles marvels at the amount of influence the other has had on Isaac. They climb into the Jeep, Scott taking shot-gun, and the Scott is the first break the persistent silence (predictably oblivious to the tension, as usual).

"Wow, so Jackson seems totally fine, huh?" Scott says, staring into the dash with a heavy look of concentration (like he's replaying the last three hours in his head and everything is completely _normal)._

"Uh, yeah," Stiles says, darting a nervous look to the rearview mirror to see Isaac looking to him, wary. Stiles looks to Scott, says, "It's a little weird. He doesn't seem as affected by the full moon as much as everyone else."

Scott turns his eyes to meet his, wide and warm. "Even last August?"

Stiles stutters over just how easily Scott has glided over everything else and landed on _concern._ For _Jackson._ "Yeah. He seemed fine. We hung out at Lydia's."

Scott's sits back, considering, and Stiles starts the Jeep. As he's pulling out of the school parking lot, Scott says, "Maybe it has to do with Lydia and Danny. Maybe they help him control himself like Allison helped me. Lydia knows about all the werewolf stuff—and now Danny does too. I remember it was a lot easier for me when I could be with Allison and she knew about this stuff, too."

Stiles feels everything inside of him freeze for one solid second that feels like forever because—_holy shit._ Scott was _absolutely_ right. He's gapes at Scott for a moment—until Scott has to shove his face to focus back on the road (completely unaware of the fact that he's just totally _blown_ Stiles' mind!).

"Dude!" Stiles exclaims, "That totally makes sense! Lydia's a frickin' _genius. _She would have done all her research—"

"Like you did," Scott says with a warm and teasing smile that Stiles' catches out of the corner of his eyes. It's supposed to be a dual jab at Stiles' epic nerdiness and massive crush on Lydia but it only serves to make his chest swell with affection because—_this is his best friend._ All heart and too much compassion.

Stiles can't help the shit-eating grin that steals his lips. "Between her and Danny—it makes sense. It _totally_ makes sense. Those two have been taking care of Jackson and putting up with his bullshit way longer than any of us."

"And that was _before_ he became a wolf," Isaac supplies from the backseat, a smile teasing at his lips. Stiles glances into the rearview mirror to see him watching Scott with something like fond admiration.

Scott laughs easily. "Yeah. Apparently becoming a werewolf means you get to do a complete one-eighty. I turned into a jackass and tried to kill my best _friend—"_

"And I became a total _douchbag_ and tried to kill _all_ of you_!" _Isaac snorts.

"And _Jackson_ grows a decent sense of humor and some compassion," Scott adds with another cackle.

Stiles can barely breathe for the duration of the ride, in _awe_ of his best friend and amazed he could have ever forgotten—for even a _moment—_what made Scott so indispensable. He is truly left _breathless. _

What had taken Stiles nearly months to wrap his mind around had taken Scott a grand total of two hours to accept. He doesn't question why Stiles never told him about hanging out with Jackson throughout this time, even when Stiles can't help but admit to it the moment they've dropped Isaac off by the trail leading into the preserve. Instead, Scott makes sure that Stiles really _is_ okay with seeing so much of Lydia and Jackson and that Stiles isn't forcing himself to be in her presence just so that he can help them and Jackson through the tougher months of being a werewolf. _These _are Scott's concerns—not Jackson or that Stiles had indirectly been deceiving him. His concern is _for_ Stiles, knowing Stiles' penchant for ignoring his own feelings for the sake of others (and Stiles knows Scott will forever carry the guilt of what he'd done with Lydia under the influence of the full moon) and Stiles is more than happy to be able to assure him that Lydia is no longer an issue. At least, not in _that_ sense. They're friends, and that's still more than Stiles had ever expected. And now there's Jackson and Danny and Isaac—and Stiles knows he will always have Scott.

And Scott isn't perfect—but he _is._

Holy shit, he _is._

. . .

The first time Stiles and Jackson hang out without Lydia or Danny (or even Isaac) as a buffer is awkward. Not as bad as it was that first day of practice, or their first lunch together at school, but still uncomfortable for the fact that any conversations are now dependent on _them_, without the expected interjection from Lydia or Danny. The full moon is only a few days away, but Lydia is out of town for some mandatory father-daughter time in Los Angeles—because despite what Lydia might say of her father, any decent parent would be understandably concerned with all the crazy shit that's been happening in Beacon Hills (the mortality rate alone has skyrocketed in the last few months since the Hale fire six years prior)—and Danny has a sick little brother to deal with while his parents are away on business. (He brings Terrence to some of the practices because the boy seems infatuated with Jackson, but when it becomes apparent that he is too sick to be sitting out in the cooling October weather Danny decides it's better if he just stays home with him until he's feeling well again).

Practice with Isaac and Jackson seems a little subdued and it's clear Jackson is feeling the absence of both Lydia and Danny like a missing limb. Scott shows up to even out the teams but then has to leave early when he remembers he has an exam to study for. Isaac gets a call from Derek and decides to catch a ride with Scott, leaving Stiles and Jackson to finish up some easy routines while Stiles cools-down. He expects them to part ways as usual, but Jackson catches him by surprise when he invites him over to his house to catch a new episode of some show none of them were really invested in but Lydia demanded they watch. (She was prone to quizzing them to make sure that they were keeping up with every newly released episode and Stiles didn't want to admit that he sort-of-actually-kind've _liked_ the show maybe-just-a-little.)

Stiles agrees because it occurs to him that Jackson must really be missing Lydia if he's willing to subject himself to _Doctor Who_ without her prompting and Jackson convinces him to leave the Jeep ("Everyone knows this monstrosity belongs to _you_, Stilinski. Who the hell's gunna try and steal the Sheriff's son's Jeep?") and join him in the Porsche. Stiles relents (because, _yeah_, Jackson has a _point)_ and they pick up some fast-food on the way to the Whittemore home.

Jackson's dad is just as disgruntled as ever when he sees Jackson walk in with Stiles in tow. Jackson grumbles a half-greeting and Stiles follows suit with barely an excuse for a hello (because this _was_ the guy who'd served him with a restraining order for kidnapping his son and it was kind of awkward the way Jackson didn't seem inclined to update either of his parents that Stiles had migrated from a mild-irritant-pseudo-kidnapper to semi-friend in the course of three months). They camp out with their food in Jackson's ridiculously oversized room and Jackson settles himself in front of his computer to check his Dropbox to see Lydia has already uploaded two new episodes.

"_The Power of Three_ and _The Angels Take Manhattan,"_ Jackson reads from desk, glancing over his shoulder to look at where Stiles has made himself comfortable at the end of Jackson's bed. "I'm not really up for watching two of these."

"Lydia probably wants to watch the _Angels_ one with us if it has anything to do with the Weeping Angels," Stiles replies around a mouthful of curly fries.

Jackson smirks—similar to the cruel smirks Stiles grew up with but can now see hold very little malice. "Right. Those freak her out."

"Understandably," Stiles says emphatically, wide-eyed. Those things were fucking _nightmares._

Jackson barks a laugh. "Werewolves you can _handle,_ but a few moving statues and you two become the _biggest_ pussies."

"I'm telling Lydia you said that."

Jackson narrows his eyes challengingly before he smirks and connects his computer to his flat screen and plays the episode. He joins Stiles, taking a seat on the carpet in front of him—and Stiles doesn't know what compels him to do it, but he's reaching out before he can help it and ruffling Jackson's hair as he would Scott's. Jackson reaches back to swat his hand away but says nothing and there's a moment where both of them realize that neither one of them is Scott or Danny—but suddenly everything feels right, like their pieces are slotting into place as the universe makes room for a world where Stiles and Jackson can actually be _friends. _

The episode is a little odd. Neither Jackson nor Stiles really get it at first and they spend a good chunk of it arguing with each other over what the billions of black cubes could be. Stiles is amused by the Doctor, as always, and Jackson makes the comment that the Doctor is a lot like Stiles in that they're both total spazzes and absolute freaks and no one ever knows what the hell they're even talking about half the time because their freakish brains work in ways no one will ever be able to understand.

It takes several minutes—during which Stiles gets distracted by some creepy little girl holding a cube who's eyes flash an eerie blue that oddly reminds him of the Beta-blue of Derek's eyes, before he took on the powers of Alpha—before Stiles realizes that Jackson was actually _complimenting_ him, in his usual ass-backwards way. He stares down at Jackson, stunned—can't think of a proper response to Jackson-fuckin'-Whittemore admiring his _intelligence_, of all things—and after a while can only think to reward the uncharacteristic praise by reaching down to hand Jackson what's left of his curly fries. Jackson blinks at them, caught by surprise because he'd been engrossed with the cubes coming alive and attacking people. He frowns up at Stiles, brow crumpled in confusion and staring at Stiles as if he'd lost his mind.

"Saturated fats won't kill you, Jackson," Stiles says because he's a dude and dude's don't talk about feelings and it doesn't matter if Jackson doesn't get the gesture for what it is—it's really for Stiles' own benefit, anyway. "You're a frickin' _werewolf_, now. Enjoy yourself!"

Jackson blinks again, but he breaks into a grin (still regarding Stiles like he's definitely one card short of a full hand) and takes the fries. "Whatever, man. Some of us _like_ eating healthy," he says.

"Dude. I don't share my curly fries with just _anyone_, so shut up and _enjoy,"_ Stiles snaps good-naturedly, and flips onto his belly on Jackson's bed so his head is level with Jackson's.

Jackson snorts and grabs a single curly-Q of a fry. "Sure. _Thanks_ for the heart-attack," Jackson grumbles before reluctantly taking a bite.

"Complainer," Stiles replies, shoving lightly at the back of Jackson's head. Jackson responds by jerking his head back, knocking Stiles on the chin. Stiles pouts, rubbing at his chin, and Jackson only flashes him a grin before throwing his head back again to drop the rest of the fries into his mouth.

They watch the rest of the show in silence, and by the time it's over Jackson has migrated onto his bed next to Stiles and the both of them are using their forks as weapons as they fight over the caramel-crumb apple pie Jackson's mom had brought up to them (they both ignore how blatantly elated she is that Jackson allows her into his room with a lingering grin that is a result of Stiles' getting lost in YouTube). Stiles uses the time it takes Jackson to pull up Netflix to his advantage, carving out a large chunk of pie with his fork and swallowing it all in one bite before Jackson can return. He's mulling over the piece, studying Jackson's back with some consideration as he scrolls through different movies to find something they will both enjoy. He settles on a martial-arts flick and returns to the bed—sees how much Stiles has consumed in the time he had foolishly abandoned his post and glares, snagging the rest of the pie for himself.

"You're such a fat-ass, Stilinski."

"Pie is awesome. Your mom rocks." Stiles grin, completely unashamed.

Jackson rolls his eyes and Stiles doesn't try to fight with him for the rest of the pie because soon enough Jackson settles it between them and doesn't say anything when Stiles' fork immediately dives in.

The pie doesn't survive _The One_ and somehow they end up going back to _Doctor Who_—not that either of them will ever admit it to anyone, but yes, they _do_ miss Lydia and _Doctor Who_ will have to do until her return (Stiles secretly suspects Jackson might actually enjoy the show for what it is, but if Jackson's not fessing up, then neither is Stiles). Jackson loads up the _Pond Life_ specials, strangely intent on the mini-episodes, which Stiles notices mostly because he doesn't have any more food to distract him. After _Pond Life_, the first episode of the new _Who_ season loads—it's _Asylum of the Daleks _and Stiles realizes Jackson hasn't said a word.

He manages to keep his mouth shut for the duration of the episode, and when the second episode doesn't load up Stiles realizes that _Asylum_ was the last episode in the playlist—and suddenly it seems so obvious to him. He tries and fails for nonchalance, staring at the black screen and feeling the weight of Jackson's silence.

He says, quietly, "You and Lydia are a lot like Rory and Amy."

Maybe the details are different, but something about the fictional couple resonates of Jackson and Lydia. He imagines that Jackson must see it too, or else he wouldn't have seemed so intent upon the characters whenever their scenes came up. Unfortunately, Stiles doesn't think he'll ever completely understand the complexities of Jackson and Lydia's relationship—but that's okay. It's not really his place, anyway.

Stiles chances a look over his shoulder to see Jackson staring at him, hard and searching. Whatever he finds makes him shake his head and he snorts, flopping onto his back and causing the bed to bounce under them. "Shut up, Stiles."

Stiles twists his body to face Jackson, frowning. "No. I'm _serious_. I wish _I _had someone who loved me as much as Lydia loves you."

Jackson flicks him an incredulous look before turning his gaze upwards. He sighs, "Look, man—I know how you feel about—"

"Nah. Don't worry. I'm over that," Stiles says quickly—then amends with a shrug, "Well—I _will_ be. She's way too good for me, anyway."

Jackson snorts again. "She's too good for all of us."

Stiles grins down at him. "She's _definitely_ too good for _you_."

It's meant as only half a joke, but Jackson meets his eyes solemnly.

"I know she is." He says; pauses—and it takes him only a second to decide on his next words. "But I need her."

. . .

He's a little less surprised when Jackson calls him up to hang out again. The full moon this month falls on the 29th—a Monday. Danny is still unavailable and Lydia won't be back until Wednesday. Stiles has to convince Jackson to come to _his_ house because he knows the other is terrified of the chance that he won't be able to control himself at home. Jackson won't say it, but he doesn't have to—the fear of harming his adoptive parents is one of the things that keeps him grounded, but it's still a fear. It's Jackson's first week away from either of his friends (his pack) since he'd turned and Stiles worries, as does Scott.

Somehow, Scott's concern for the other werewolf's plight is enough to ground him and without waiting for an invite, he shows up Monday night at Stiles' house just as he and Jackson are settling down in the living room for a round of _LittleBigPlanet 2_ (the _least_ violent game he owns). Jackson is bemused, but Scott comes bearing cupcakes and grocery bags full of junk food and Stiles has to stifle his laughter when Scott remarks that sweets help him stay calm during the full moon. Apparently, Ben & Jerry's does wonders to soothe a werewolves' bloodlust because there is not a single close call the entire night.

Jackson and Scott huddle on either side of Stiles with their own tubs of ice cream and Stiles munches on chocolate chip cookies and caramel popcorn. Lydia Skypes them at precisely 7:49 PM, conference calls Danny, and the five of them chat like this was the natural order of things.

And maybe it is.

. . .

The concert is on Halloween night. Allison bails at the last minute so Lydia suggests they invite Scott instead and instructs Isaac and Stiles to request permission from Derek to allow his Beta to attend (because, like Stiles, Lydia recognizes that Isaac is still loyal to Derek, even if Derek's other Betas have completely disowned him). Lydia and Stiles are concerned for Allison (as is Scott, but he has his own reasons and Stiles doesn't think Scott needs to know that Allison was meant to have been here in his stead, per Lydia's machinations, and that Scott's fear that Allison is receding too far into herself to be healthy could be justified).

Stiles, Lydia and Danny decide to dress themselves as werewolves—and because it's Lydia and she never does things by halves, there are facial prosthetics and amber-gold contacts waiting for him and Danny when they get to her house (as per her orders). She is a master with a brush (and glue) and when she turns them to the vanity mirror so they can appraise her work, Stiles is shocked to find himself staring at a completely wolfed-out face that _seriously_ looks so natural he almost freaks out and thinks it could be _real._ The prosthetics are of a high grade (which makes sense after Lydia explains that her father has ties within the entertainment industry and as a reward for enduring his unwelcome fretting last month, he'd helped her get into contact with someone who was willing to get her a good deal on the molds.) Danny looks _amazing _and Stiles won't deny that his eyes stray _just a little_ as he admires the combination of Lydia's artistic talents and Danny's impeccable taste in male attire (the teen knows _exactly _how to accentuate all the right areas). Lydia's makeup takes the longest, but when she's done, she looks absolutely _divine._ Stiles has a hard time not drooling in the presence of both and is rendered absolutely speechless, grateful that Jackson isn't present to witness him ogling his pack-mates.

When Jackson, Isaac and Scott meet them at the house Jackson takes one look at Lydia and something inside him seems to _break_ when she just smiles winningly, flashing incredibly realistic faux-fangs. Completely heedless of everyone else in the room, he crowds Lydia into his arms and buries his face in her neck and just … _stays_ there like that—hugging her tightly to his chest. Everyone has the decency to look away and give them some privacy by stepping outside, Scott gushing about how _awesome_ everyone looks and Isaac shaking his head and grinning in amusement. The boys spare no time wolfing out and Stiles passes them some heavy-duty earplugs he'd picked up at the firing range when he'd gone by the station earlier. Jackson and Lydia meet them by Danny's SUV and Jackson's wolfed out (though Stiles doesn't think his transformation had been as intentional) and seemingly unwilling to detach himself from Lydia's side.

Evidently, their makeover had served an additional purpose (beyond showing just how awesomely supportive Lydia was of her friends and her boyfriend). At the venue, nearly everyone is in costume, with varying degrees of quality. Almost immediately upon arrival they're ushered to the front of the line where people gush over the quality of Lydia's work and the originality of having a complete werewolf pack (sans an Alpha, but the civs don't need to know that).

Everyone is particularly impressed with Jackson and Scott's prosthetics, though a little frightened by Isaac's (because apparently Isaac's eyebrows just seem to completely vanish when he goes wolf).

"Group photo!" Someone calls out—and suddenly their group is being huddle together and shoved in front of a cameraman with a tripod.

Stiles panics for a moment—remembers the distorted mug shot of Derek Hale—and mutters quietly enough for only the werewolves to hear, "Lens flare."

The first picture is a little awkward because as soon they'd heard Stiles' warning, all three wolves had clenched their eyes shut; it makes them look constipated. Lydia demands a retake and the second picture is a little more natural—if goofy.

At Danny's prompting, Jackson and Danny plant themselves on either side of Lydia, leaning in to peck her cheeks, eyes shut. Lydia thinks it's hilarious, giggling gorgeously. Scott, being the dork that he is, decides to mimic the pose with Isaac, both wolves on either side of Stiles. He feels dry lips press into both cheeks and doesn't even freak out when he feels a hint of fangs from both—does his best imitation of Jackson's smarmy smirk and feels pretty good about the picture when the photographer shows them and there's no unnatural lens flares and he doesn't look like a total dweeb.

They're told they can get printouts after the show and all of them share a laugh over the near-miss-turned-success.

The concert is pretty awesome, but it probably has a lot to do with being surrounded by a group of your friends and being able to enjoy yourself without the constant threat of danger hovering over their heads. Lydia and Scott bond over the fact that they both _love_ Kids of 88 and Scott shares his secret ambition to play guitar and start a band someday. They exchange favorite songs and then when the opening acts leave the stage, Lydia and Scott prove they know every word to every song the Kids play, belting out the lyrics without missing a beat. Stiles doesn't miss the way Jackson and Issac (and even Scott, though he seems to be doing it less consciously) form a loose barricade around Danny, Lydia and Stiles, keeping all others in attendance at a generous distance. Stiles doesn't mind because it gives him more room to move around and dance than would normally be possible. Occasionally, some stupid asshole tries to 'nonchalantly' shove his way into or past their group to claim a spot near the front—but the wolves are unmoving walls of steel and it never fairs well for said assholes.

Everything is going perfectly—Stiles even manages to forget his disappointment in failing to get Allison to climb out of her self-imposed exile.

So, natural, that's when everything goes to hell.

After the show they pick up their pictures and they're gushing over how perfect Lydia looks, complimenting the job well done on the prosthetics once again. Danny comments on how good Stiles looks between two guys, prompting a round of teasing wherein the entire group decides to make it their goal between the drive from the venue to Lydia's to see how uncomfortable they can get him to feel by practically molesting him. He counts it a victory that he manages to retain possession of his pants as they pull into the driveway. Climbing out of the SUV is an ordeal with Scott, Isaac and Jackson draped down along his back and sides.

"You guys are assholes," Stiles grumbles, trying and failing to extract himself from their hold. He glares, half-heartedly, at Lydia—who is totally comfortable watching her boyfriend shoving his hands up the front of Stiles' shirts to grope at his abs. "Lydia—_why?"_

She smiles sweetly. He's not convinced. "'Why' _what_, sweetie?"

Danny meets them as he rounds the SUV and manages to swoop in and plant a wet kiss on Stiles' temple. "Don't pretend you don't like it."

Stiles tries to sulk but his mouth betrays him by grinning. He feels something vibrate against his hip and glares at Isaac. "That _better_ be your phone."

Isaac laughs and steps away, Scott and Jackson melting away simultaneously. Fishing his phone from his pocket, Isaac's grin is interrupted by a look of confusion. "Huh. It's Peter."

Lydia goes absolutely still out of the corner of Stiles' eyes, but Jackson is immediately at her side and Scott is already asking, "What the hell does _he _want?"

Shrugging, Isaac looks hesitant about answering but does so, bring the phone to his ear. He doesn't get a chance to speak because he's just frowning along to whatever Peter is saying on the other end. Then, suddenly, Isaac's eyes are going wide and Stiles watches the blood drain from his face as he's shocked out of his wolf form. Scott, somehow, seems to get _hairier_, taking a step towards Isaac. Stiles remembers that Scott can probably hear everything Peter is saying and looks to Jackson to see his suspicion confirmed on the other's face—Jackson is frowning, but he doesn't share the look of horror on Isaac's face or the anxiety in Scott's.

Shakily, Isaac lowers the phone from his ear without having uttered a word, staring emptily into space. Scott takes another weary step towards him, tentative before setting a clawed hand on the other wolf's shoulder.

"I'll drive you. Come on," Scott says, face slowly morphing back to human.

"What's going on?" Stiles asks, worried and dreading the answer.

Isaac's mouth opens and closes uselessly a couple of times before he can croak a response, still unable to focus his eyes on anything. "Derek—Derek's not—the—they're—they're—"

Scott's expression twists, pained with sympathy. He meets Stiles' eyes and murmurs, "Peter's found Erica and Boyd—but they're not in good shape and Peter can't get a hold of Derek."

Stunned, watches as Scott begins to usher Isaac towards his Honda as quickly and gently as possible. While his brain scrambles to make sense of the drastic turn their night has taken, his body moves on autopilot and he rushes after the two werewolves without a parting word to the others.

He doesn't make it two steps before a firm hand has him by the shoulder. He jerks around instinctively to scowl—is met with Jackson's more practiced glare and sighs. "Jackson—I've gotta—"

"No." Jackson rumbles lowly, voice less human than Stiles has ever heard it.

Stiles gapes, incredulous, "_What? _Jackson—"

"_No,_ Stiles," Jackson snaps—and Stiles realizes with a start the blond actually looks _angry_—like he's-willing-to-use-force-if-necessary _angry_. It makes Stiles want to retreat a step, but Jackson's hand keeps him in place. Jackson seems to realize he's making him uncomfortable, however, because he loosens his grip and relaxes his expression by a margin. "It's too dangerous."

"_Yeah,_ but—"

"Jackson, just go," Lydia says suddenly, sounding considerably calmer and much more collected than she'd seemed a couple of minutes ago. She's glaring at Stiles, however, and he has no idea what he's done to piss either of them off. "You know he'll just try and get himself involved the moment you turn your back. Just go and keep him and Scott out of trouble."

"Be careful, man," Danny adds, expression completely sober.

"Danny and I will be here," Lydia assures and Danny affirms this with a nod.

"No," Jackson shakes his head, cutting iridescent blue eyes to them. "Go to my house. My room. Stay there until I get back."

Lydia and Danny nod. Lydia says, "Sure,"

Jackson turns to glare at Stiles and exhales loudly through his nose. "Fine, Stilinski. Let's go."

Stiles blinks but stumbles after Jackson anyway as they make their way to the Jeep (because Jackson hates driving the Porsche through the preserve and even pissed ten ways to Sunday he can still think about his fancy sports car).

"Dude, Jackson, you don't have to—"

"Shut up, Stiles." Jackson growls to let Stiles know just how unhappy he is with the situation. Stiles shuts up, feeling guilty but not sure what he'd done to warrant such treatment. "Let's _go."_

They get in the Jeep and Jackson doesn't let them start the car until he sees Lydia and Danny get into the SUV and pull out of the driveway.

. . .

There's so much blood. Too much. Even without enhanced senses the smell of it hits Stiles like a _wave_ the moment they enter the preserve. Stiles rolls the windows of his Jeep up immediately (which had been down to allow Jackson to track Scott and Isaac) but the coppery smell remains. Stiles hadn't realized _what_ Jackson had been using to track the other two (since neither had bothered to tell him where they were headed) and wishes it didn't mean what it probably did. _This_ much blood—Erica and Boyd—and Derek _missing?_ Stiles was having a hard time feeling optimistic.

Anxiously, Stiles presses down a little harder on the gas and Jackson says nothing—doesn't have to tell Stiles where to go now because Stiles is already weaving his way onto the path that leads up to the Hale manor. Jackson is also ignoring the erratic beating of his heart, for which Stiles is grateful. He's terrified, but the feeling seems to be branching out in too many directions, manufacturing too many different scenarios—it's an all-encompassing sort of terror that he hasn't felt in quite a long time.

He barely has the forethought to shove the gear into park the moment they roll into view of the house and his headlights catch three huddled figures—Jackson doesn't even have the chance to stop him before Stiles is shoving open his door and leaping out of the vehicle, running towards the wolves.

He stumbles and trips to his knees next to Scott—has to clamp both hands over his mouth at the taste of bile because _this_ is where the stench of blood is _strongest._ It's the smell of blood and decay and _death_ so foul that Stiles gags and has to duck his head behind Scott's back to cough.

"Get a hold of yourself," Peter mutters, for once without the perpetually playful lilt to his tone.

"Where's Derek?" Jackson asks grimly, far more composed than any of them, save Peter.

"Out," Peter says shortly. "He never answers my calls."

Slowly, Stiles manages to control himself. He straightens, one hand still clutching Scott's shoulder to steady himself—gathers his strength—and looks down at the two bodies lying side by side between them. Erica and Boyd are barely recognizable—clothes in tatters and skin in _ribbons_ where Stiles can see. There has to be more blood on and around them than within and for a moment Stiles' heart stutters to a painful stop, fearing—

But Erica's chest shudders and _jerks_ and suddenly her body is going into convulsions and Scott and Peter are shifting away as if frightened, Isaac staring at her in abject horror as he clutches Boyd's head against his chest, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Peter looks on in wonder and says, "She's have a seizure," like it's the single most extraordinary thing he's ever witnessed.

No one is moving quickly enough for Stiles' satisfaction—he forgets his fear and his anxiety and he shoves Peter out of the way to claim the spot by Erica's head, moving her onto her side and lowering the weight of his upper body along her flank to limit her tremors. Wrapping an arm protectively over her waist he meets Scott's eyes and grits out, "We need to find Derek."

Scott looks terrified but he's doing a good job of keeping it under check. "We _tried_ calling, I don't—"

Stiles scowls, says with more force than is probably necessary, "You're _werewolves_, aren't you? Don't use a goddamn cell phone and _call _him!" Scott looks uncertainly from Stiles to Isaac then Jackson, and Stiles snaps, "Dammit! I don't care if you don't consider him your Alpha—_call him!_ You and Jackson are tied to him, like it or not! _All_ of you! _Call_ him and he will _hear_ you!"

He feels compelled to bash some heads when all four Beta respond only be staring blankly back at him.

Then, carefully, Jackson lowers himself to a crouch beside Scott and frowns down at the still trembling Erica. The seizures have passed but neither she nor Boyd are _healing_ and they're still _bleeding_ too much and—_fuck! _

Scott shares a nod with Isaac and shifts away from Erica and Boyd, closer to Jackson. Reluctantly, Isaac releases Boyd and follows suit, whimpering pitifully as he looks between his injured pack-mates.

As one, the three young wolves take a breath.

Then their faces are shifting and they bare their fangs, releasing a growl that sounds like _twenty_ wolves, rather than three. Stiles feels it shake his bones.

A second later, a howl joins the rest and it's Peter—his howl louder and deeper but blending with the rest just as if it belonged.

They sustain the growl for longer than human lungs would have allowed, pause for only a second to breathe—and instinct seems to be taking over for the three youngest wolves because they howl this time, more distinct than the growl from earlier. It's definitely a call of some sort—even Stiles can differentiate it. Peter considers the other Betas with a canted head for a moment before he joins them again.

All the while, Stiles holds Erica close, hunched over her body to share what little warmth his human body can provide her with. Absently—desperately—he reaches out for Boyd's hand, tangling his fingers into the larger hand. He murmurs soft words—empty assurances that are meant more for benefit of the other wolves than either Erica or Boyd.

He's not sure how long it's been, but he is suddenly aware of the silence and looks up when he realizes the Betas have ceased howling.

They are still crouched, although raised on the balls of their feet into a more alert posture. All three of the young Betas have their necks craned back to stare into the dark forest.

Without any other warning, a dark figure bursts through the trees and cuts across the distance to them so quickly Stiles doesn't even have the chance to blink. He feels a hand tugging at his shoulder, hears Peter murmuring, "You need to back away—_right now_," but Stiles ignores the former Alpha completely and stays his ground. The Betas back away instinctively, heads bowed, and Derek is sudden in his face, _snarling_ and red-eyed.

"What_ happened?"_ Derek _rumbles_, inhuman—his face has completely morphed into the wolf and he's glaring down at Stiles accusingly, arms wide at his sides and clawed fingers splayed wide.

It's Peter that answers. "They were left here for you to find. A warning, Derek. It's time."

The growl that rips out of Derek's throat is more terrifying than anything else Stiles has witnessed but he doesn't flinch when Derek lowers himself between his Betas and settles his hands to clasp over Erica and Boyd's shoulders.

Black, spidery veins appear along the backs of his hands and ascend upwards, tracking the paths of his veins up his forearms and disappearing beyond the rolled sleeves of his Henley. It takes Stiles less than a second to figure out what Derek is doing—was there when Deaton showed Scott the same trick. He's taking away their pain, and judging by the almost impossible furrow of his brow, Derek knows it won't be enough.

Still, it spurs Stiles into action and he looks to Scott urgently. "Deaton!"

Scott nods, face slipping back to human and eyes so heavy with concern it twists an ache in Stiles' gut and heart.

"Wait!" Stiles says suddenly and Scott freezes, half-turned to go. "Jackson should go with you—just in case whatever—_whoever—_did this is still out there—"

Jackson stands and pauses to give Stiles a lingering look of hesitation. "You should—"

"_Go_," Stiles urges, gritting his teeth so he doesn't tighten his hold over Erica and cause her more harm. "I'm fine. _Go!"_

Jackson spares Derek's back a glare before he takes off after Scott and they retreat into the Honda and tear away from the house.

Isaac's whimper catches Stiles attention and he looks to the wolf to see him scooting closer to where Derek is still hovering over his injured Betas. Isaac is staring into the broad shoulders almost imploringly and he asks, quietly, "Are—are they going to be okay?"

Derek doesn't answer—doesn't make a sound or even twitch a muscle to show that he's heard. Stiles sees the pulsing black veins still tracking up the Alpha's arms and turns to Isaac, slipping his arm from around Erica to reach his hand to grasp Isaac's shoulder in a reassuring manner. Without any hesitation, Isaac turns to Stiles and leans forward into a hug Stiles hadn't realized he was offering, burying his face into Stiles' shoulder. Stiles swallows and moves his hand to the back of Isaac's curls, inching his face towards Isaac's so that his lips are millimeters away from his sensitive ears.

"Listen to me: they are going to be _fine. _Erica and Boyd are going to be _just fine_, I promise you, Isaac. I _promise."_ Stiles assures him with confidence he feels but doesn't know where it could have sprung from in such a hopeless situation. "Listen to my heart—am I lying?"

And Stiles doesn't actually know if he's lying or not, but wants so much for his words to be true that it seems to be enough for Isaac because he relaxes the barest fraction into him.

"You're not lying," Isaac snuffles.

Stiles scratches his fingers into the dark blond curls almost rewardingly, says, "That's right, I'm not. And I'm always right, so if I say they're going to be okay, _they're going to be okay_."

Isaac whimpers again and Stiles feels something hot and wet seep into his shirt and knows the wolf is crying again. "O-okay."

Isaac is not weak—but Derek had created his pack out of broken and vulnerable teenage humans and being a werewolf didn't erase years of vulnerability and pain, no matter what the Alpha might think. Stiles knows that Isaac is terrified right now, and not for any one reason. Stiles won't pretend to understand all that Isaac has gone through, but he understands pain enough to know how to be silent and allow others to take comfort in him. He might not be able to relieve pain by the touch of a hand, but he'd experienced enough heartache to know how to soothe the hurt in others.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Derek shift and retract his hands from his Betas. Derek's eyes are still Alpha-red when they meet his over his shoulder but Stiles doesn't blink. For a moment, the man seems to study Stiles' face with an unnecessary amount of concentration—then he scowls and looks to Peter and demands, "You should have contacted—"

Stiles can hear the exasperated roll of Peter's eyes in his tone. _"_I _tried_ calling you, but you never—"

"Not _me. _You should have called Deaton—not a bunch of _kids_," Derek snarls.

"They're _you're_ pack. Maybe you should be more select—"

"_Not_ Scott. And _not_ Jackson. Why are they even here?"

"I didn't call them," Peter huffs. "I called Isaac. The rest of the cavalry just sort of—_arrived."_

"Isaac was with us when Peter called," Stiles explains patiently, absently stroking his fingers through said wolf's curls. Derek sounds and looks pretty pissed, but if he's wasting time arguing with his uncle then Stiles has to take it to mean Erica and Boyd are not in mortal danger. It's still unnerving when Derek's red glare shifts back onto him, but Stiles tries not to react because Isaac has gone a little limp against him and that's better than the prospective freakout he'd almost undergone.

Derek stares and only later will Stiles remember that he was still decked out in Lydia's wolf makeup, but at present, all he can think of is to hold Derek's glare as resolutely as he can manage. Erica is still half on his lap and Boyd's hand is still in his; they're both impossibly cold. Isaac is struggling not to flip out, huddling closely to his side and all Stiles can think about is how these broken _children_ have to deal with a world of pain they didn't deserve because of an Alpha's selfish loneliness.

Stiles has never hated Derek before—but he's dangerously close to it now.

When Deaton arrives, Stiles can't think of the nauseating terror he feels at his core. He focuses on Isaac and lets the wolf huddle close while Deaton works to patch the two Betas up to the best of his abilities. Jackson stands closely behind Stiles and Scott takes Isaac's other side and on more than one occasion Stiles catches Derek's glare flick in their direction. There is no anger in his eyes, but the emotion is close to it and Stiles doesn't know him well enough to decipher what it means. He looks away whenever he catches Stiles staring back.

Peter is far less inconspicuous and openly stares with a twist of his lips that is too close to a smirk and would make Stiles fume if he wasn't too pressed with thoughts of watching two fellow classmates _on the brink of death._

"I've stabilized them. For now," Deaton says suddenly, shattering the silence that had fallen over them. Stiles' heart feels like its been punctured and his stomach bottoms out even though this should be _good news_—but he's had a doctor tell him all manner of comforting half-lies and the look on Deaton's face leaves little room for hope. Deaton looks to Derek, leveling the Alpha with a look of determination and sympathy. "I can't do anymore than this. All we can do is wait and see if they can heal on their own."

If.

_If_ they can heal.

Stiles thinks he's going to be sick and it must show in his heartbeat because Isaac's breathing picks up and Scott is moving at once—swooping in like the hero that he is with an arm around Isaac's shoulders and leading him away to give Isaac privacy. Stiles can recognize the tell-tale signs of a panic attack but he can't deal with that and it kills him. But Scott is there, always ready to pick up Stiles' slack, and Stiles feels the solid warmth of Jackson at his back as he inches closer to him, sensing his distress. Stiles only feels the nudge of his arm against his shoulder but somehow that's enough.

Derek is addressing Peter now with little time to process Deaton's words and Stiles stares, transfixed, hoping and waiting for an answer to stumble past the Alpha's lips—a solution or a cure—because somehow, even after all of his fuck-ups, a part of Stiles still inherently believes Derek should know what to do. That he'll be able to fix this—that, with Deaton's help, everything will be okay—because _they_ are the goddamn grown-ups here and they should _know._

He's pissed and he's scared and one emotion is more dominant than the other but he can't tell the difference anymore.

What Derek says, instead, is: "We'll keep them here, for now, until they're stable enough to be move to the den. I want you to—"

"This is a _joke_, right?" Stiles doesn't know what possesses him to speak—but he rarely knows why his mouth says what it does, clearly lacking any sense of self-preservation. Stiles' terror has become incredulous anger in a snap and while Derek's scowl is not quite so hostile as he'd expect it's still pretty damn dangerous and Stiles counts it as a win when he doesn't piss his pants under the weight of an Alpha's glare.

Jackson has somehow moved to position himself to his side, angled in just a way that his body stands between Stiles and the Hales.

Neither Derek nor Peter have a response to Stiles' outburst. Deaton is watching everyone with the weariness of one who has been on the receiving end of a wolf's ire on too many occasions.

Since Stiles actually doesn't want to start a fight (and challenging the Alpha's authority would be just that and would likely lead to a battle of tempers that Erica and Boyd could not _afford_) Stiles tries to sound as reasonable and unsarcastic as he can manage. "They can't stay here. It's not safe for _them_ and it's not safe for _you._ If anything happens, they're vulnerable and it makes _you_ vulnerable. They're not staying here."

Derek inhales angrily through his nose, ignores the way Peter's head swivels to him with interest, and grits out, "They're not going to a hospital."

_Obviously_, Stiles thinks. He doesn't say that, though, and instead says, "_My_ house."

Derek looks irritated, somehow, by the suggestion—but then Jackson is jerking around so suddenly that Stiles doesn't get the chance to regret opening his mouth.

"_Absolutely_ not!" Jackson snarls.

Stiles frowns, feeling his heart beat a mile a minute. "Whoa—what? Why not?"

"It's too _dangerous_!"

Stubbornly, Stiles matches Jackson's scowl—even when a large part of him agrees wholeheartedly. "That's the point. It's too dangerous for them. Someone needs to watch them while Derek and Peter find whoever—"

"That _someone_ does not have to be _you!"_

Stiles is so stunned that he doesn't have an immediate rebuttal. Jackson's vehement refusal is the last thing he had been expecting. There is total and absolute fury in his expression and its completely foreign because, while it's directed _at_ him, it's—at the same time—_not._

It takes him a while to remember what feels like _years_ ago when Isaac had told him:

"_He treats you like pack."_

Stiles is … _pack_.

To Jackson.

Helplessly, Stiles searches for the reassurance of his best friend as the world is pulled out from under his feet. Scott is hugging Isaac tightly to his chest, but his eyes meet Stiles' over Isaac's shoulder and he sees the message just as clearly.

_No._

Stiles is pack, to Scott and to Jackson, even if the two wolves didn't consider each other as such—and they're telling him _no._

_No,_ Scott's eyes say. _You're not allowed to put yourself in danger like that. No._

Stiles looks back to Jackson and sighs—bites back on the urge to argue because they're right and even if Stiles' wishes he could be the big black void that could swallow up all the bad things and make things alright, he wasn't. He was human and he was weak and the time had long passed when he could get by on impulsive decisions and instincts alone. Too many people have gotten hurt—have _died—_and Stiles doesn't get to be stubborn anymore. He doesn't get to do much of anything.

He meets the glowing blue of Jackson's eyes and nods.

"So, what do you suggest, then?"

* * *

_November 2012_

When Erica and Boyd are deemed stable enough to be moved, it is with no small amount of begrudgment that Derek allows for them to be taken to Jackson's house. It takes all four days of waiting for them to heal sufficiently to convince Derek this is his best option. Strategically, there is no safer place than Jackson's home given its approximately centralized location. Jackson's place is at the heart of the town's three packs, within a reasonable distance of Scott and Derek, and it's only Derek's distaste of his wayward Beta and his instinctual need to control that has him posing as much of a fight as he does. The issue of Jackson's parents is resolved swiftly when he informs them that both will be gone on family business and since Jackson usually elects to stay home on these trips, they won't be too bothered by him rejecting their offer to join them on this year's trip.

(Stiles tries to pretend he doesn't care as much as he does about Jackson's treatment of his adoptive parents. Eventually, someday, he thinks he'll address the issue. See if he can shake some sense into the reformed asshole.)

It feels like a punishment. Like the world is punishing them for the last few months—which had been _good,_ almost _perfect_—and Stiles wishes life was like a video game. That he could just reset or restart from an old save. He wants a do-over.

But ... he doesn't even know anymore where the problem _began._

Peter? Kate Argent? _Gerard_?

. . .

Things don't get any better any sooner.

Stiles feels like an outsider looking in even though this is still his life. He watches as Jackson withdraws from Scott and Isaac, retreating into his own pack of Danny and Lydia, and feels something tear at him when Isaac drops out of his life completely, isolating himself to keeping only Scott for company.

And Stiles is alone and he's _not_ because, even though Jackson and Scott and Isaac still speak with him—_check up _on him—Stiles sees the gaping fissure between them. The only time they're all together again is when Stiles visits the still healing Betas and Jackson is there and suddenly it's like the last several months are gone because Jackson and Isaac won't meet each other's eyes and there's a tension there that Stiles hadn't realized had been dissolved until it's back, full force. It's as if Jackson can't be bothered with anyone that isn't Lydia or Danny or Stiles and Stiles doesn't know what he's done to merit this kind of loyalty but he's more concerned by this sudden shift in dynamics.

It's obvious that Isaac is nearly sick with worry over his fellow pack-mates, but Jackson's house might as well be lined in mountain ash for all that Isaac is willing to approach. Neither Isaac, nor even Scott, can bring themselves to impose on Jackson to check on Erica and Boyd—like suddenly pack boundaries _mean_ a shit to either Beta and it would be taboo to cross the threshold of the Whittemore home without Stiles their to play … _what_ he didn't know. Some sort of _mediator _between them.

It's insane. It's insane because these were his _friends_ and he was stuck between all of this and he's alone—watching his friends slowly distance themselves from the unlikely group they had formed until the only thing connecting them anymore is _Stiles_ and Stiles knows that's not enough.

It's not enough for _him._

__(It doesn't escape his notice that it takes only one instance of Derek's shitty life drama to ruin all these months Stiles has spent unwittingly smudging the boundaries that separated the three packs. So much for Derek being an Alpha.)

He feels lost, torn in three directions. It's not a matter of to whom his loyalty falls to. Stiles isn't a wolf—he doesn't have _packs_. He's human and there are no instincts that tell him he has to _choose_ between his friends. Scott and Jackson and Isaac are his _friends_ and Stiles is _torn _because they're all hurting and they're all scared. They all have people to protect and Stiles is helpless.

The issue of Beacon Hills' three packs has never been so glaringly prevalent and Stiles is lost and he is _scared._

. . .

With Isaac back to Scott's side like an extra limb and Scott taking up patrolling duties with Derek (and occasionally _Peter_), Stiles feels compelled to visit Erica and Boyd as often as possible. Jackson isn't always at his house, but he lends him a key so that Stiles can let himself in whenever he's inclined. Stiles understands that Lydia and Danny take precedence in Jackson's life so isn't too upset that the other prioritizes their safety over Erica and Boyd's. It's enough that Jackson has offered the sanctuary his home can provide to another pack—to _Derek's_ pack.

And speaking of Derek.

Stiles isn't an idiot. And in light of events and the criticality of Erica and Boyd's condition, he'd allowed for the Alpha to take some time to get his shit together. Focus on hunting down whoever was responsible for this. He hadn't asked questions. Had avoided butting in because Erica and Boyd had taken the forefront of his concerns and interrogating Derek was the last thing on his mind.

He goes to the Hale home, but Derek is nowhere to be found so he tracks down the den at the train depot and makes himself at home until Derek decides to show. He brings his laptop because he'd expected a little bit of a wait so even though he's got no wifi he pulls up Lydia's progress on the bestiary and tries to see if he can find anything in the several hundred pages she's translated that can tell him what the fuck is going on _now_.

It's nearly an hour before anyone shows up.

And it's not Derek.

. . .

In retrospect, Stiles will realize that taking his werewolf-lying abilities for a test run on an _honest to God_ Alpha _pack_ had not been his most _brightest_ moment and could most likely have been the _last _thing he did if not for an unpredictable stroke of luck.

. . .

He doesn't remember anything between a paragraph on the various types of shifters relating to the _lycanthrope _and waking up to a surge of blinding pain of daggers digging into the flesh at the base of his neck like living _fire._

It's over after an eternity of agony and for a long time Stiles doesn't know who he is or what he's supposed to do or even remember how to _breathe._

Later, when he can feel that his body is his own and not a foreign intruder, he realizes that he's writhing on hard, cold stone—shuddering from both the cold and the pain.

It's much longer still until his brain is functioning enough to properly register that he's listening to words being spoken. That he's not alone.

" … even if he _is_ a human."

"Well, the Hales have always been known for their … _kinks_, right?" A laugh.

"They've always kept pets. What good is he to us? It's not like he can tell us anything. Right?"

"Deucalion?"

"You haven't said anything. What did you see?"

"I can't be sure. But he's awake, so maybe he can answer some of our questions. Hm, little boy?"

One voice (Deucalion?) in particular was distinct in that it was clearly European. Another voice belonged to a woman and after that Stiles had trouble distinguishing the other two. As his coherency slowly returned, he counted four voices—but when he was wrenched to his feet with a ferocious growl at his back he amended that to five: four werewolves in front of him, glaring Alpha red eyes, and a werewolf behind him, growling lowly above his shoulder.

The two youngest werewolves were twins, with olive skin and matching smirks. The woman watched him with about as much severity as he could read in another otherwise expressionless face and he absorbed the details of her chestnut skin and dark hair and bare feet like only the son of a Sheriff would. The oldest of them was a Caucasian man with blond hair and the sort of chiseled and prim look that had Stiles identifying him as Deucalion even before he spoke to confirm this thought.

"Good of you to join us. We've much to discuss," Deucalion says with a smile that is insincere and doesn't reach his eyes.

Stiles glares and thinks of the last time he had found himself in a similar position—tries to remember anything that will tell him how he'd come to be surrounded by a group of Alphas and wonders if there had been an attack in Beacon Hills that he didn't know about.

And then he's panicking—his heart racing as he immediately starts to think about his _dad_ and his friends and Derek and—

One of the twins smirks, a cruel twist of his lips. "Oh, _look_—it's _scared."_

The growling behind him intensifies and the hold on his shoulder deepens. He feels the prick of claws at his neck and swallows.

"What do you want?" Stiles demands quietly, grateful when his voice doesn't quake even when he feels a shudder of fear in his sternum.

Deucalion hums, his lips stretching in a humorless smile as he paces closer to Stiles, hands at his back. His eyes narrow when Stiles refuses to avert his gaze but he seems more intrigued than offended and continues walking until he's practically upon Stiles, back straight and chin raised enough so that he seems to tower over Stiles imperiously. Distantly, Stiles remembers Peter and his confrontation with the man when he'd been an Alpha. Stiles drops his eyes immediately at the fresh memory of Lydia's bloody dress and Peter's scarlet grin. He ducks his head a fraction for good measure and he hears the Alpha in front of him sniff in a way that sounds like a laugh.

"Well, you see, we seem to have a bit of a problem on our hands." Deucalion says after a moment.

"What does that have to do with me? I don't even know who you are … " Stiles mutters at the Alpha's chest, scowling.

"Ah, but it _does._ You reek of wolf. Of _pack._ Three different packs, in particular, which is _odd_ given that—last I heard it—this was _Hale_ territory. Of course, we know all about the fire, but word has also spread that young Derek Hale has recently claimed Alpha-ship over his uncle." Deucalion pauses, and out of the fringe of his sight Stiles can see his smile transform into something malevolent. "Which is _also_ strange, given that to do that, he'd have had to _kill_ his uncle for the position—but I see in your mind that Peter Hale is well and truly alive."

"I guess he's just a stubborn bastard," Stiles grumbles, trying to keep his heartbeat calm. If they were willing to talk, Stiles wasn't going to be the one to rush them to his early death. Maybe, if he stalled long enough, it'd buy him enough time to call out for some help—he could still feel the weight of his phone in his pocket and it felt huge and impossibly obtrusive.

Belatedly, it occurs to him that the Alpha was inferring he could _see_ into Stiles' mind.

_That_ … was a _whole_ new can of worms altogether.

"Hm. Perhaps. But he _was_ dead, wasn't he?" He doesn't wait for Stiles to answer; clearly he doesn't need a response. "Now, _normally,_ it's frowned upon a werewolf to turn against his own pack—especially one's own blood. It's not unheard of and that's not why we're here, but you can count that as one in a long list of transgressions that we're here to … address."

Stiles snorts before he can help himself, muttering, "What are you? The _werewolf_ police?"

There's a laugh from one of the twins and a, "Sure. You can think of it like that."

"Our _biggest_ concern is simply this: the Hales _were_ one of the few remaining line of purebloods. This territory is _theirs_ and it has remained uncontested out of respect to their legacy. But now a Hale has returned to reclaim his territory."

" … Then what's the problem?"

"You're one of the Hales' humans, aren't you? It should be obvious."

"I don't belong to—" Stiles cuts himself off with the thought that he couldn't just throw Derek under the bus and somehow it suddenly seemed like a very bad idea to alert them to the fact that he had absolutely no allegiance to Derek other than his commitment to ensuring his _friends_ (Derek's _pack_) were kept safe from the chaos of their life. He swallows and tries not to look up, scowl deepening. "I'm not some object or some slave or whatever. They're my friends."

"Friends." The way Deucalion says it seems odd and Stiles wonders if he made a mistake with his word choice.

"The issue is _control_," says the woman behind Deucalion suddenly, stepping forward so she fell into Stiles' line of sight out of the corner of his eyes.

"Or _lack_ of it," snorts one of the twins.

The woman continues, tone weighted and foreboding. "There are three packs, two of which are _rogue_, and an Alpha that is closer to an _Omega_ and frankly an _embarrassment_ to the position. There are children being _turned_ at alarming rates and an _abomination_—"

Deucalion smirks. "Yes, we _know_ about the Kanima."

"—running rampant in this territory as a result of Alpha Hale's inadequacies." Stiles' gaze flicks up to catch the woman's eyes narrow, a glint of something dangerous just beneath the surface.

Behind him, the other wolf growls, "Then, of course, we have the _Argents."_

"Understandably," Deucalion says, bringing a claw finger under Stiles' chin, forcing Stiles' to meet his eyes. "We are concerned."

Stiles glares and struggles not to show how terrified he is, even if he's sure he reeks of it. He doesn't think before he speaks and says, "I don't know where you get your information, but you're _wrong._ You don't know anything about Derek or what he's done and what we've gone through and you have no right to come in here—you have _no right_ to attack us. Like you said, this is Derek's territory and _you_ attacked _his_ pack. You're not welcome."

Deucalion continues to smile, although the prick of his claw under Stiles' chin gets sharper. "You've no idea what our rights are, human. And this may be Alpha Hale's territory, but not for long. He is a liability—a danger to this town, to you, and to his kind. He has already attracted the attention of the _Argents._ It is only a matter of time before his actions instigate another war. It will be a genocide—and _you_, human, and _all_ you care about, will be caught in the crossfire."

Most of the time, Stiles really couldn't give a shit about Derek. He didn't think about him anymore than he had to because he had his _own_ problems to deal with and his _own_ life to worry about—but he can't forget Isaac's eyes and the persistent admiration for the perpetual fuck-up that was Derek Hale. He also knows that, for all the shit Derek has brought down on them, it's never totally been his fault. Stiles knows that Derek is not a bad guy, and if he has to choose, he'd take the guy's side _any day _than sit back and watch him be put on the block for shit that _wasn't his fault._

He was not an idiot.

He could read between the lines.

These guys weren't talking about _reforming_ Derek—or even a lecture.

They wanted Derek's head on a platter and that …

That was honestly a terrifying thought.

Derek wasn't a friend in the way Scott or Jackson or Isaac were his friends. But there was something to be said about a guy you'd save a good half a dozen times from certain death and who'd returned the favor with little to no begrudgment.

He doesn't know what possesses him to say what he does next. He's not entirely sure it's the truth, but his body seems to think that it is because his heart doesn't even stutter.

"Derek may not be a perfect Alpha, but he's a good one. What happened with the Kanima had nothing to do with him and everything to do with that psychopath, Gerard. Just because he doesn't run things the same way you want him to doesn't mean it's _wrong._ Just because there are three packs doesn't mean we wouldn't come together if Derek asked us to—if he _needed_ us to."

"That's not how it works," Deucalion murmurs with an unkind smile, dragging his claw under Stiles' chin as he pulls his hand away—not hard enough to draw blood, but just enough so Stiles could feel the burn.

Stubbornly, Stiles raises his face to glare into the Alpha's eyes. "Well, that's the way it works _here."_

Deucalion's smile is sharp and there's a glint in the Alpha red of his eyes that seems to project the image of his sharp canines clamping at his throat and tearing out his jugular. The werewolf behind him growls deeply from his chest and Stiles feels his stomach twist in fear.

Finally, Deucalion says, "This is what is going to happen: I _could_ take away any memory you have of us, of this conversation, but I won't. Because I don't think you will talk. I don't think you'll tell anyone about us because I know you're a smart boy. You don't need a demonstration because I'm sure you know what we could do. You know that, even _if_ your little friends rose to challenge us, too many would die. There is no victory in challenging us. Only blood."

Stiles swallows the heavy lump in his throat—then sneers, "Why don't you just erase my mind, then? If it's that simple."

The Alpha's smile is almost deceptively sweet—absolutely charming and wicked. "Because that just wouldn't be as much fun. You will not speak of us to your _friends_ because it is not yet _time_, and if you would like to ensure the prolonged _existence_ of your friends_,_ you'll allow us the courtesy of conducting our affairs uninterrupted."

"Derek already knows you're here," Stiles says before he can help it, trying not too linger long on the slim hope that he might actually _survive_ this encounter.

"Of course he does," Deucalion says. "We've left messages."

And then he feels the sinking of claws in his shoulder and there is only darkness thereafter.

. . .

It's only later that Stiles' realizes that the point of his capture hadn't so much been _intimidation_.

What they had been after had been information, and rather than trouble themselves wrangling one of the Betas, they'd taken _him_, because he was the weakest. He was the human. And of course, he'd been helpless against them—had offered them little in the way of a struggle and it took only a puncture of their claws for every little secret—every last vulnerability—to spill from his thoughts into theirs. They had everything they needed—knew everything that he knew about Scott and Isaac and Jackson and Lydia and Allison—the Argents and the bestiary—and _Derek._

Stiles is pretty sure he's never hated his humanity as much as he did when he awoke in the middle of the preserve, shoulder soaked in blood. When he gets home to check his shoulder, he finds that it's completely healed, too soon to be natural—but in the following days, when no physical changes take place and his senses remain just the same, he allows himself to admit that he is still human.

He's absolutely paranoid, however, that the smell of the Deucalion or the other Alphas would be apparent to one of the wolves—and, remembering the Alpha's warning and thinking of his father and Scott's mom and Lydia and Danny, he hurries to scrub the scent under the shower to the best of his ability then, in a stroke of brilliance, makes an appointment with Miguel. The scented oils conceal what could be left of the Alphas' scent.

* * *

**End Notes**:

Well, my laptop is inaccessible right now so while I would normally be working on my Crimson and Viridian series, I can't. I discovered I had this stuffed away in my Google Drive and since I was in desperate need of something to write, here ya'll go. Sterek will be found in chapter two. This chapter was mostly about setting things up.

Comments and kudos are much appreciated and will probably encourage me to finish up the second chapter faster, but are not mandatory since I will write the second chapter regardless.


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